


FFXIV Write 2020

by Eremiss



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0-5.3 spoilers (potentially), Archon Loaf, Coffee, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dragonsong War, Eidith, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, FFxivWrite2020, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Idiots in Love, Midlander Hyur (Final Fantasy XIV), Moonfire Faire (Final Fantasy XIV), Mystery, Other, Overworking, Post-Heavensward, Post-Shadowbringers, Shadowbringers Spoilers, Shaving, Squirrels, When pigs fly, being the neutral party in a dumb argument, comeuppance, crazy prompt words, cuddling for warmth, domestic kinda, dumb arguments, early life, fluff turned steamy, little moments and cute things, mild jealousy, not realizing who you're talking to, shadowbringers, silliness, soft, steam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:16:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 37,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eremiss/pseuds/Eremiss
Summary: The works from the 2020 writing challenge by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast on Tumblr :DJust like last year, I WILL post all of my submissions here, buuuuut I might not be very prompt about getting them copied over.Responses to the challenge are posted daily (as I keep up /wheeze) on Tumblr, and they'll eventually wind up here, too, if you aren't about that tumblr life.Spoilers and NSFW are marked by chapter. If I miss something, let me know!Enjoy!
Relationships: Female Warrior of light/Thancred Waters, Scions of the Seventh Dawn & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Comments: 36
Kudos: 12
Collections: #FFxivWrite2020 Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge, Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. Prompt List

Crux

Sway _(post-5.3)_

Muster

Clinch

Matter of Fact

 ~~FREE DAY~~ ( _skipped)_

Nonagenarian _(post-5.0)_

Clamor

Lush

Avail

Ultracrepidarian

Tooth and Nail 

FREE DAY - Specific

Part _(post-5.0)_

Ache

Lucubration

Fade (Steamy but SFW)

 ~~Panglossian~~ ( _skipped)_

Where the Heart is

FREE DAY - Preference

Foibles

Argy-bargy

Shuffle

Beam

Wish

When Pigs Fly

 ~~FREE DAY~~ ( _skipped)_

Irenic

Paternal

Splinter _(post-5.3)_


	2. Crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crux - noun  
>  1\. The basic, central, or critical point or feature  
> 2\. A puzzling or apparently insoluble problem.  
> 3\. The most difficult portion of an ascent in rock climbing or mountaineering._

Gwen squinted, shading her eyes for good measure even though it was a cloudy day. This would be a lot easier if the wind would stop for a moment or three. After long seconds of fruitless searching, she asked, “You’re sure?”

“Yeah! It’s right there!” Yozan pointed confidently up into the tree. “See it?”

She didn’t.

Gwen crouched beside him, straining her eyes and screwing up her face in concentration as she struggled to pick out a gray shape amongst the shifting mass of branches and leaves.

Yozan waited an admirably long time for her to find what he could see so clearly. The most she could admit to was something just barely catching her eye near the top of the tree.

“I… think so,” Gwen hedged, pushing herself up. Whether or not she could see the squirrel from the ground wasn’t important. If it really was in the tree like Yozan said, she could find it once she got up there. “I’ll get him down.”

He trotted after her as she approached the trunk, “Is it true you’re really good at catching squirrels?” He hadn’t balked much when she’d objected to him trying to chase the squirrel down from the tree, and she had the sneaking suspicion he’d only sought her out after a few unsuccessful attempts of his own.

Gwen replied with a modest smile and a shrug. It wasn’t exactly a heroic talent, no, but it was a talent nonetheless. 

Yozan, fittingly, looked equally amused and impressed by the idea of the Warrior of Light chasing squirrels.

Standing at the trunk and looking up didn’t reveal much more than peering from a distance had. Gwen bought a little time while she searched the branches, “Why are you after this squirrel, again?”

“It stole a necklace from Auriana’s display,” Yozan said, putting hands on his hips and frowning up at the branches. “I volunteered to get it back.”

Is _that_ what she was raising hells about a few bells ago? The poor creature had no idea how grave of a mistake it had made. Rowena and her employees didn’t take kindly to thieves.

Gwen hummed vaguely, zeroing in on the hint of stillness that had caught her eye earlier. She tilted her head one way then the other, then took a few steps to one side for a better look.

Sure enough, it proved to be a little, bushy-tailed ball of gray huddled close to the trunk of the tree, clutching something metallic and generally necklace-shaped.

Gwen gave Yozan a reassuring smile. “Hopefully returning the necklace will spare the poor thing Rowena’s wrath.”

He nodded enthusiastically, and she wasn’t sure if he was more excited about protecting the little squirrel or watching her chase it. 

Gwen circled the base of the tree a few times, trying to find the quickest, safest path of ascent. It didn’t look to be an intimidating climb, despite the wind. Most of the branches looked sturdy enough to support her weight, and it was far from the tallest tree she’d ever climbed. There were no neighboring trees close enough for the furry little thief to try and flee to, so the chase wasn’t likely to be too risky, either. 

It seemed the crux of the climb would be just finding a way to get started, as the trunk had been stripped of branches. The closest one was a little more than ten fulms up.

On her third pass Yozan stuck up a hand to volunteer. “I can get a ladder!”

Gwen shook her head and waved a hand, No, not necessary. 

Once she found a suitable starting place she took a moment to measure her breaths and gather her rocus. She hadn’t been doing many lancer drills these past few moons, but she was far from out of practice. It was just a manner of setting her feet, crouching low, gathering her energy and…

Gwen launched herself up like an arrow from a bow, an encouraging whoop from Yozan chasing after her a second later.

The moment her hands wrapped around the first branch she was all but back in the Twelveswood chasing squirrels for the Wailers, years of practice and experience flooding back in a wave of nostalgia. She pulled herself up by her arms until she could hook an ankle over another branch and lever herself up to grab a new handhold.

She scarcely had to think about climbing as she rose through the branches, her body moving on its own as if her hands themselves knew where to reach and her feet knew the sturdiest places to stand. She absently wondered what creature someone might compare her to if they saw her climbing. _I guess I’m something of a squirrel too, aren’t I? But I’m hunting squirrels, so more like a cat, maybe? Or an opo-opo?_

The squirrel noticed her well before it was within reach, ceasing its attempts to gnaw on the necklace – _Silly thing will ruin its teeth…_ – to chitter angrily at her and fluff up its bushy tail. She frowned at it, undaunted, and kept climbing. 

It darted off without warning, and she jumped after it. Gwen didn’t think about the path she was taking, focused on tracking the fleeing thief and trusting her hands and feet to handle the rest. She was barely aware of the branches she was grasping and dodging aside from the occasional niggle of instinct that warned her away from certain limbs. She wasn’t sure if it was some inkling of the Echo or all of her prior experience that let her guess the squirrel’s path of escape, but either way she managed to never lose sight of it.

It wasn’t long before she was close enough to touch that big bushy tail. Rather than seize it, she gave it a single, sharp tug. 

Startled, the little thief dropped the necklace with a high-pitched squeal. 

Relieved the creature had decided to cut its losses and abandon the shiny trinket rather than forcing her to wrestle it out of those thieving little paws, Gwen released the squirrel’s tail and let it flee. She didn’t need the _squirrel_ , after all, just the necklace. She watched it launch itself to another branch and disappear around the trunk like a little bolt of lightning, significantly faster than it had been a moment ago. She wondered how much of that newfound speed had to do with her scaring the daylights out of it, and how much was due to no longer being hindered by the weight of the chunky ironworks necklace.

Seeing that the pursuit had come to an end, Yozan called up, “Did you get it?”

Gwen picked her way down to the empty bird’s nest the necklace had landed in and plucked it up. It seemed undamaged despite the squirrel’s dogged attempts to abuse it. “I did.” 

She descended to the lowest branch and picked her landing zone, choosing to hang from the branch and drop down rather than jump straight to the ground.

Yozan was eying the tree in a way that suggested he would be up in the tree trying to mimic all the climbing and jumping he’d just witnessed if it weren’t for the little issue of having no way to reach the first branch. He wasn’t the least bit disappointed she’d settled for retrieving the necklace and hadn’t apprehended the furry thief. 

He grinned as she handed over the stolen trinket, “You let it off with a warning?”

Gwen laughed and shrugged. “Let’s hope it learned its lesson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenging prompt right off the bat lmao. I’ve literally only heard crux used in the context of “The crux of the issue/problem/matter.” Or to mean a cross or intersection, though that seems to be incorrect, according to most of the dictionary sites??
> 
> This word was getting into ‘losing all meaning’ territory within, like, 5 minutes of the prompt coming out because I was rereading it and mumbling it to myself so much lol
> 
> As usual: I am literal. Endings are hard. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.


	3. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-5.3  
>  _Sway - noun  
>  1\. a rhythmical movement from side to side.  
> 2\. rule; control_

The suggestion that the recently-recovered Archons attend the Moonfire Faire had been unexpected but not unwelcome. “To celebrate everyone being home again,” had been Tataru and Krile’s explanation, coupled with the sentiment that, after everything they’d gone through on the First, they’d more than earned some quality relaxation and time to themselves. 

It had raised a few eyebrows, certainly, but at the same time no one had protested, nor been able to come up with any objections. They were each fairly recovered from the whole out-of-body ordeal, and they had no pressing or urgent matters to attend to, as Eorzea was –tentatively, briefly– at peace. Such opportunities were rare and always fleeting, so why not make the most of it while they still could? 

The sun is almost fully set on the Scions’ first day of vacation, and the beach is gradually filling with Faire-goers patient,or stubborn, enough to lay early claim to their spots for the fireworks display. The balmy air is thick with the sounds of revelry, music, the smell of seasonal fare and the din of lapping ocean waves.

Alisaie and Tataru convince Gwen to teach them the Flame Dance she’d learned during the scant bell she’d been off exploring on her own earlier in the day. What inspired her to learn the dance herself, Thancred isn’t sure. Perhaps it was just for fun, with a healthy dash of getting caught up in the revelry of the Moonfire Faire and the general carefree atmosphere of Costa del Sol. Or perhaps it has something to do with the gossip he’s heard about… something to do with ‘Bombardiers’ and a giant shark? He’ll have to get the real story later.

Gwen tugs at her pareo, making sure it’s securely tied about her hips, and asks if anyone else wants to join. No one takes her up on the offer, the lot of them perfectly content to lounge on sun-warmed towels and blankets and observe.

Thancred stretches out on his blanket and props his head on his fist as the trio start going through the motions, pondering how much he’ll learn just by watching. Maybe he’ll join them later, if the mood strikes in time.

Y’shtola mutters beside him, words dripping with mirth, “Hoping for a private lesson, perhaps?”

It’s obvious Gwen didn’t hear the little jibe, as she hasn’t tensed like a startled antelope and turned red as a rolanberry. He half wishes she had, as he’s morbidly curious what Alisaie might do as revenge for tampering with their fun.

Thancred makes a show of rolling his eyes as Gwen starts to demonstrate how one should move their arms. He drawls blithely, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of _course_ not,” she says, smirking down at her book. 

Urianger poorly stifles a chuckle on her other side. 

The sour look Thancred shoots them only makes Y’shtola’s smirk grow wider. He turns his head away with a scoff and pointedly ignores both of them in favor of watching the dance lesson. 

The Flame Dance is simple enough, mostly stepping from side to side and waving arms one way or another. Alisaie and Tataru master the motions fairly quickly, and it isn’t much longer before they stop following Gwen and start moving at their own pace. Soon the three of them grow bored of the same motions and start adding in little variations like kicks and twists, occasionally throwing in something particularly ridiculous just for a laugh. 

The longer they dance, the more Thancred’s attention lingers on Gwen. The Flame Dance is hardly complicated or showy, even with their additions, but there’s a certain ease to the way Gwen moves that keeps drawing his gaze back whenever it happens to wander. 

Her skin is glistening with sea spray and sweat in the setting sun, her smile spreading ear to ear and her eyes twinkling with delight. The occasional breeze off the ocean plays with her hair, and for a moment he catches the scent of the flowers tucked behind her ear. His eyes follow the flow of her arms and the sway of her hips, tracing the shape of her legs when she steps just so and her pareo falls open. 

Every step and twirl of her wrists, every twist, every laugh, every toss of her hair steals a little more of his attention until he’s forgotten about the others entirely.

Thancred belatedly realizes he should be making some effort to not look so outwardly enamored, or at least try to stare a little less blatantly, but right then and there he can’t muster the will to try. Clearly his attention isn’t doing any harm— except to his pride about his poker face and his own preference to appear aloof and unflappable.

Besides, he’s a bit preoccupied by the fact that the longer Gwen dances, the more keenly he recalls they’ve refrained from touch all day, as is their habit in public. They’ve scarcely touched beyond little nudges of elbows and a quick squeeze of the hand. Normally it’s an inconvenience, or at worst an annoyance. But, normally, she isn’t dancing in naught but beachwear, a wrap of airy cloth and a brilliant smile.

Thoughts of a ‘private lesson’ had been passing fancies, just idle musings, when Y’shtola had made her remark. Now, though, the idea is considerably more appealing. 

The longer Gwen dances, the more Thancred is tempted. He could ease up beside her and join in the dancing. He could grasp her waist and dance with her, feel the heat of her skin under his hands as they moved with one another. He could press his smile to hers and pull her hair aside to taste the salt and sun on her skin. He could tug at the knots holding her top and pareo until they came undone…

The music comes to an end, and so do Gwen, Alisaie and Tataru’s dances, each of them flushed and satisfactorily winded. Thancred shakes his head, a little dazed, and ensures his shameless gawking had been his only _display_ before pushing himself upright. 

The trio gradually wander back to the Scions’ little camp of blankets and umbrellas, still giggling and teasing one another about their antics. Alisaie declares her intent to seek out refreshments and turns to head for the heart of the Faire, Tataru trotting along after her.

Thancred entices Gwen to stay and sit with him by offering the last of his drink. She accepts and sinks down beside him with a grateful hum, giving his elbow an affectionate nudge as she tucks her legs to one side to keep her sandy feet off his blanket. As she sips his drink and tilts her head to listen to whatever Y’shtola and Alphinaud are discussing, Thancred takes a moment to study the sky. He judges there’s still time enough before the fireworks to steal a few minutes of privacy.

He catches Gwen’s eye and gives her a charming smile. “Care to go for a stroll?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> This was so much easier than Crux, haha. And I like how it came out! Though it was surprisingly difficult to come up with ways to describe the way Gwen was dancing and the motions and all that. I don’t write about dancing or fighting often, so it was kind of a challenge!
> 
> I debated writing more, specifically getting to the NSFW part, but it just wasn’t happening. I’ll save it and see if I can use it for another prompt ;B
> 
> I actually have another Moonfire Faire-related idea from their ARR days. We’ll see if I have an excuse to write about that later, too!


	4. Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Muster - verb  
>  1\. assemble (troops), especially for inspection or in preparation for battle.  
> 2\. collect or assemble (a number or amount)._

Gwen crawled back to consciousness to the din of steady rain against her window. She shifted and wiggled until she freed her head from the blankets to peer outside. Light, but still early.

The rain is soothing and the bed is wonderfully warm and soft. She’s more than a little tempted to nestle back down into the blankets and spend a little while longer dozing.

Instead, she laboriously dragged herself out of bed. Groggy as she was, she still remembered that she had too much to do today, and no time to sleep in. The stack of Grand Company reports looming on her desk didn’t care that she’d lost track of time reading and had stayed up far too late.

Drowsiness clung stubbornly, weighing down her eyelids and limbs until her movements were sluggish and her eyes threatened to fully close. When the bleary haze refused to clear from ehr vision and her thoughts kept dissolving into lazy nonsense, Gwen hauled herself into the shower and turned it on.

The water was warm and soothing, matching the rain outside as it soaked into her hair and drummed on her face. 

_Gotta get moving…_ she reminded herself, halfheartedly grousing about how in the world people could get out of bed and just _be awake_ right then and there.

Gwen reached for the shower nob and hesitated. 

A yawn itched the back of her throat, and her eyes were still bleary.

She grit her teeth, mustered her resolve, and twisted the dial.

The warm rainfall abruptly became an icy deluge, each drop biting at her skin with a sinking chill.

Her body jerked instinctively at the cold shock, her skin bristling with gooseflesh. She muffled her yelp of surprise with her clenched teeth, shuddering and tensing up under the chill. The ungentle chill jolted her brain into action, sleepy haze vanishing in an instant to make room for disoriented, half-panicked thoughts. 

Gwen jumped out of the cold spray for long enough to scrub her skin with soap and work conditioning oil into her hair, shivering all the while. She had to steel herself all over again to step back under the water, another unpleasant shock of cold washing over and through her.

The moment she was properly clean she cut off the water and fumbled for her towel.

Well, on the bright side, at least she was finally awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, would you look at that. It’s phone-in o’clock!! lmao
> 
> I seriously had, like, 3 different ideas for this, but the moment I started writing them they completely fell apart @_@ Plus, my brain is very not here right now.
> 
> Ah well. I got it written! That’s the important part! And it doesn’t suck XD


	5. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Clinch - noun_  
>  A knot used to fasten a rope to a ring or cringle, using a half hitch with the end seized back on its own part

“You take the rope like this,” the hunter makes a series of loops in his length of wiry twine, “to make your snare.”

Gwen watches with rapt attention, holding her own length of twine up in front of her face in order to keep both it and the hunter’s example her vision.

“Take these ones here, twists them this way,” he flips the loops a certain way, “secure them here and here when you set it,” he makes a few knots, “and it’ll kill a small thing, like a rabbit.”

She nods studiously, mimicking the loops and twisting a few lopsided knots.

“Twist them the other way,” a flick of his wrist and he’s undone the knots, another and he’s flipped the loops around to twist a different way, “and it won’t.” He puts his hand through the loops and cinches them down on his wrist to demonstrate. “Then you tug here and here to unravel it.”

Gwen’s fingers tangle in the rope as she tries to undo the first snare and she frowns at the tangled mess, brow furrowing. 

The hunger laughs --a little too hard, she thinks, as self-conciousness squirms in her chest-- and patiently waits for her to free herself before showing her how to do it again. Her fingers are clumsy and slow compared to his, moving ponderously and stopping frequently as she second-guesses her work.

Despite that, he grins, “You catch on quick. Good. Just practice and you’ll get faster.”

She grins at her uneven-but-functional replication of his snare and quickly pulls out the scrap paper in her pocket to jot down the directions and make hasty sketches of the steps.

He watches, amused that she’s studiously listening and writing notes like she’s in a class or lecture rather than chatting with a grizzly, dusty hunter in a tavern. He seems to like the respect and admiration, though in truth she’d only approached him because he seemed to be the one most likely not to curse and growl at her or dismiss her out of hand. Rapt attention and being at all impressed or intrigued by his skills is the best way to keep him talking.

As she’s putting the final touches on her last sketch he asks over her head, “Know how to tie a clinch knot?”

Gwen pauses, charcoal hovering over the page. _Clinch knot…_ The name conjures images of fishing hooks and loops to hang on hooks. She learned how to tie it once but rarely uses it, as fishing with a line takes far too long and is rarely worth it. She's much more likely to catch _something_ with a woven net jammed between rocks in a swift part of a river-–though, granted, placing and retrieving that net was a far more perilous undertaking than casting out a line and waiting for a bite.

She nods, putting her notes back into her pocket.

He makes a loop with his index finger and thumb. “Go on then, let’s see it.”

She threads her rope through his fingers, twists the tippet around a half-dozen times, then threads the tag-end back through the loop and pulls it snug. “And you wet it before you tighten it,” she says.

He nods, thoughtfully approving. “Not bad. But I can do you one better. Here,” he loosens the knot and weaves the tail back through the loop the tag-end had made. “This one here is better for bigger hooks and thicker rope so it won’t come undone. Jot that down too.”

Gwen does. Little as she might use it, knowing it will only be helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was _so_ stumped on this for, like, ALL of yesterday. Then I woke up this morning like “OH!!! :D”
> 
> I was considering doing something embrace-related, but this was much easier XDD


	6. Matter of Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Matter of fact - phrase_  
>  in reality (used especially to correct a falsehood or misunderstanding)

A firm knocking sound disturbs Gwen’s dreams, resonantly logical enough for her sleeping mind to recognize it as an intrusion from the waking world.

There’s a dim familiarity to the cadence that grows clearer as she stirs, dreams dissolving into the flat blackness behind her eyes. She knows that knock.

The more she wakes, the more she can pick up on the small sounds and sensations of the real world. A knob turning. A surge of chilly air. A latch clicking, closing the chill back out. Muttered words.

The sense of familiarity flickers into recognition, simultaneously solidifying her consciousness and muffling the instinctive apprehension and suspicion bubbling up beneath her lethargy.

She sluggishly drags her head from her pillow and hums inquiringly at the darkness.

“Apologies for waking you, dove,” a voice replies, tight and trembling slightly as it moves around the room. The characteristic squeak of her wardrobe doors opening rings out, shortly followed by them closing again. “I thought it safer than risking getting skewered in the dark.”

Gwen pries her eyes open as dry wood hits iron grates and looks towards the sound. The darkness flickers when metal scrapes stone, and she blinks laboriously to make the crouched, hazy figure come into focus, “Thancred?”

He grunts in reply and stands from the hearth, the fire successfully rekindled and quickly spreading over the new logs. 

She sits up and knuckles at her eyes, rubbing away the last of the haze and the slight sting of the light.

“Now, now, don’t get up on my account,” he drawls, tugging at his belt and kicking off his boots.

The heavy curtains around the door to the balcony are askew, letting in fingers of pale moonlight and glimpses of falling snow. She recalls that burst of wintry air. “Did you,” she murmurs confusedly, “come in from the balcony?”

“I did.” Thancred’s jaw is rigidly still, his teeth locked together, and when he opens his mouth to talk it trembles. His movements are quick and terse as he jerks at his clothing, his whole body tense.

She blinks, watching him clumsily discard each article of clothing as he hovers in front of the fire. There are damp spots all over his clothing, particularly his pants and boots. “Why?”

“Because I doubted the Fortemps’ doorman was amenable to visitors in the middle of the night.” He wrestles his way into one of her spare sleep shirts and chafes his hands against his arms, curling tightly on himself. He jerks his chin dismissively and adds, “Speaking of, you should go back to sleep.”

Gwen frowns at his back, noting how rigidly he’s holding himself and the faint jitters in his shoulders. She makes an inquiring sound to draw his attention, then gestures to the unoccupied side of the bed. While she doesn’t doubt his ability to sleep standing if he’s of a mind to, surely curling up together beneath the warm blankets would be a far more satisfying way to chase away the chill after not seeing one another for more than sennight.

Thancred looks back at the fire, muttering something under his breath. A beat later he crosses the room and crawls into bed, quickly burrowing under the covers. He makes no attempt to move closer as he bundles himself in the blankets, apparently intending to keep to his side.

Despite the expanse of bed between them and the layers of blankets, she can see him shivering from head to toe and hear how his chattering teeth are chopping up his breaths.

“Are you alright?” she murmurs, scooting closer.

“M’ fine,” he grunts back.

She frowns, unsurprised at his refusal to admit his own discomfort even when asked. She’ll do it, then. “Are you cold?”

Thancred laughs dryly. “As a matter of fact,” a block of ice shaped like a hand wraps around her arm and she yelps. “I’m freezing.”

He tries to withdraw back into his cocoon of blankets, but she catches his hand covers it with her own. “Come here, then.”

“So you can freeze too?” he asks flatly, not moving.

Gwen tugs insistently at him. He stays put once again, frowning at her and clumsily shaking off her hands. 

She moves instead, pressing close to him and trying to worm her way into the cocoon of blankets separating them.

Thancred makes a sound of protest, only able to retreat a few ilms before being trapped at the edge of the bed. When she slips through his barrier of blankets and nestles against him he grumbles, “I’m fine.”

“You’re freezing,” she insists, wrapping her arms around him. Her forehead knocks against his and she finds his hair and skin are damp with melted snow. Each touch of her warmed skin against his, even where there’s a barrier of nightclothes between them, is a new shock of chill that sends shivers racing up her back. It only makes her hold him closer, rubbing her hands over his back and shoulders to chafe warmth into his skin.

He shudders and leans into her, resolve wavering. “Gwen, I–”

She lifts her head enough to meet his eyes, staring meaningfully at him.

He frowns at her, almost managing to look stern rather than grumpy. Then he mumbles under his breath, wraps her up in his trembling arms and pulls her against him. There’s an undercurrent of stubbornness that suggests he might be hoping she’ll change her mind, or recoil from his icy touch and retreat back across the bed. 

She shivers violently at the press of his cold skin but resolutely stays put, tangling their legs together for good measure. If he’s forgotten how stubborn she is, that’s his own fault.

 _Twelve_ , though, he’s _freezing_. Hardly surprising given how damn his hair and clothes are, she supposes. What was he doing? How long was he out in the cold? 

Gwen fusses with the blankets, ignoring Thancred’s pout and the occasional obstinate shift while she bundles them together. While she’s busy tucking the excess tightly around them he dips his icy hands beneath her shirt and splays them against her back. Her reflexive jerk and squeak put a small, smug smirk on his face, and her disapproving glower only makes it grow wider. A petty victory, but a victory nonetheless. 

Mollified, he surrenders to temptation and buries his his face against her neck with a low groan of relief, gratefully soaking up the warmth she’s so readily offering. Despite being so thoroughly bundled together he manages to cuddle closer still, until they’re thoroughly entwined.

Soon enough they’re both trembling, though neither of them say a word about it.

Slowly, he thaws.

Once they’ve both stopped trembling and the cocoon of blankets is comfortably warm inside and out, they share a sigh of relief. Thancred is all but limp in her arms, lazily stroking her back with hands that no longer feel as if they’re made of ice

Content, and with the hour catching up with her, Gwen allows herself to relax.

When sleep starts to tug more firmly at her she asks, just to make sure, “Warm?”

“Very,” Thancred mumbles drowsily

An idea winds lazily through her head and she laughs under her breath. “Hm… now that I’m thinking about it–”

“You’re surprised I didn’t suggest a more _amorous_ means of warming up?” He grins against her neck, stubble tickling, and trails his fingers up the line of her spine. He leaves it at that, hand coming to rest placidly between her shoulder. “Would that my day hadn’t proved so overlong and tedious. Alas.” 

She hums, wondering what had happened to make his day so ‘overlong and tedious.’

“Disappointed?”

She shakes her head, running her fingers through his hair to make sure there are no tangles. All things ‘amorous’ have been about the furthest thing from her mind since she woke to him knocking on the balcony door. 

“Where have you been?” She murmurs into his hair, concern leaking into her curiosity. _What happened? Why were you half-frozen?_

“Working.“ His tone isn’t hard, per say, but it’s final. That’s the best answer she can expect to get out of him, as is often the case with his assignments, particularly whilst he’s still in the midst of them. It’s just the nature of his work. 

Gwen has never liked it, but there’s naught to be done about it. 

She hums, unsatisfied but understanding, and closes her eyes, content to remain comfortably entwined for the rest of the night. “Wear warmer clothes next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the boo is cold so you snuggle for warmth <3
> 
> I actually started writing this for clinch, for the embrace-related use of the word, but ended up deciding against it.


	7. Nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nonagenarian - noun  
>  A person who is from 90 to 99 years old_

Gwen watched the child run to her grandparents, a tottering woman and a hunched man with a cane. They both smiled as they listened to her rattle off questions, answering what they could as the trio began moving away.

She temporized, leaning forward and back on her toes and her heels for a moment. She pictured herself and a certain gunbreaker as a couple of nonagenarians with excitable children of all ages chattering at them with strange stories and asking a million questions.

The thought made her smile to herself, though she couldn’t help but feel an extra twinge of fantasy about it. 

The Warrior of Light and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were ever in need, after all. And the sort of work they did didn’t precisely go hand in hand with having a long life. 

Then again, there was Master Matoya… 

Gwen pondered the possibility and turned to find where Thancred and Ryne had gotten off to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously tho, what are these prompts >.>   
> A lot of challenging words this time around!!
> 
> I want to write a longer thing, but they’re not coming to me this time around @_@ Here’s hoping I get a good idea today! :D


	8. Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Clamor – noun_  
>  a loud and confused noise, especially that of people shouting vehemently
> 
> Set during/after the Steps of Faith ARR trial.

Gwen doesn’t remember getting thrown from the bridge. She’s not sure how it happened. One moment she’s there, feet on the ground, blade singing in her hand. The next, she’s tumbling through open air with nothing below her but churning mists. A blow from Vishap…?

All at once time slows and grows strangely fluid, more like cold syrup than a fast-flowing river. It happens abruptly, between moments, and it’s not quite so jarring as she thinks it should be. While the world moves slowly, her thoughts are still quick, clear and concise. 

She instinctively adjusts and angles to herself to keep from spinning out of control, arms spread out wide at her sides. 

For half a moment she’s not falling through a frozen gale– she’s tumbling towards a canopy of bright green in bright, stinging daylight. 

Oh. Yes. This has happened before… sort of. Duskfeather had climbed too quickly and banked too sharply for her cobbled together saddle, and she’d toppled from his back. He’d caught her, just barely.

Once they’d both gotten their nerve back they’d practiced it a few times, just in case it ever happened again. 

A moment later she’s back in Coerthas, falling headlong into the rift beneath the Steps of Faith. The wind is icy cold and growing moreso, tearing at her face and hair and stinging her throat, bringing tears to her eyes that freeze immediately. 

Her body feels as though it’s moving in slow motion as her hand moves to her throat, joints stiff and fingers numb. It comes away grasping her whistle. She wails on the little whistle for all she’s worth, but can’t hear it past the blood in her ears and the thunder of her heart, louder than the canonfire and the roar of dragons on the Steps of Faith.

She runs out of breath in moments and gasps for air. Her lips sting sharply, flesh tearing when she rips them away from the frozen metal.

Her heart should be racing so hard it might well burst out of her rib cage, but instead it feels slow and purposeful. Each beat makes her chest ache and her body thrum.

A hissed spell and a burst of will still the air just in front of her eyes. It doesn’t clear the frozen tears, but it spares her the stinging wind.

A brown blur crusted with frost shoots past her, then spreads its wings wide and slows its descent enough to match her. Duskfeather. He adjusts the angle of his wings to fall headlong beside her, ears pinned and eyes squinted against the wind.

Time starts to move a little faster. 

Her hands are numb and tingling, aching with cold and adrenaline as she reaches for him. Tingling and pain are good, though. That means she can still feel them.

He’s too far away. She adjusts her fall, angling her shoulders and arms so she can veer a little closer, her movements stiff and sluggish despite the urgency and panic surging through her veins.

 _Twelve above_ her chest hurts. The air is full of icy knives, and each breath seems to steal more air from her than it gives.

She stiffly grabs the pommel and horn of Duskfeather’s saddle. 

Then the world is gone, swallowed by the uppermost layers of the mist boiling up and out of the rift. The chill of the damp air bites all the way down to her bones in moments, soaking into her as if she’d jumped into a frozen pond. She’s half-convinced that’s precisely what happened when hauling herself onto Duskfeather’s back feels more like dragging herself through water than empty, misty air. 

She can feel her bones and muscles creaking as she drags her rear down into the seat and presses her legs to Duskfeather’s sides, forcing reluctant limbs to work. She doesn’t bother fumbling to get her feet in the stirrups, instead hooking her knees over the short, sturdy support bars on the saddle flaps. She doesn’t bother with the reins either, letting them thrash in the wind and whip at her face and shoulders. They won’t keep her in the saddle, and Duskfeather needs as much freedom of movement as she can give him.

She has no idea how far away the ground is. There’s nothing around her but the torrent of frozen, churning mist.

Gwen hunches down low, trying to make herself as aerodynamic as possible. She clutches the saddle for dear life and clings to his sides and the support bars with her legs.

Duskfeather spreads his wings wide and pulls out of the dive.

An invisible force slams into her like a wall, shoving her down and back. She folds beneath the force, bowing even lower and compressing in on herself, her shoulders forced down into her hips and knees. Her insides squish nauseatingly back against her spine before dropping out entirely. Despite her fierce grip she slides backwards on the ice-slicked seat until the cantle is biting into her lower back. It almost feels like the mist itself is trying to tear her out of the saddle.

Her head grows light and her vision goes splotchy around the edges. She holds her thoughts together, clinging to the singleminded determination to hold onto the saddle with everything she’s worth. For a moment she’s thankful she’d double-checked and tightened all the buckles and straps prior to the battle.

Duskfeather angles upwards –thank the gods _he_ knows which way that is, Gwen has no sodding idea– and the force pushing and pulling at her begins to gradually ease.

The mist parts. The world is bright and clear again. The underside of the Steps of Faith hangs in the air over their heads, growing closer by the second. 

Her hair is whipping straight back. She lost the tie for her braid. Huh. She inanely wonders if her hair will freeze like this, blown straight back like a flag. 

She can’t feel her ears, or her face or her hands. But she _can_ feel the strain in her muscles, in her back and legs, in her arms and fingers. She can feel the effort of her grip, the exertion and adrenaline burning in her muscles. 

Time is moving so _fast_ suddenly–or is this just the normal pace?

Gwen can’t hear the clamor on the bridge over her still-thundering heart as they crest the top of the Steps, but she can _see_ the troops, and Vishap towering above them– and all the airborne scalekin that had kept her from riding Duskfeather into battle in the first place.

The force pushing against her eases to a familiar, manageable level; strong, but bearable. She fumbles her feet into the stirrups, some part of her knowing she’ll need the stability and mobility they provide. 

Her sword and focus are on the bridge, or they might be wholly lost to the torrential mists below. Wherever they are, they’re beyond her reach. 

_Practice focus_. The thought is crystal clear despite the growing chaos in her head. The first focus X’rhun had given her when she’d started training in red magic. An old thing, simple and somewhat crude in design, but perfectly serviceable. She’d replaced it with the amethyst one X’rhun had gifted her after she’d shown enough progress, leaving it to languish at the bottom of Duskfeather’s saddlebags.

Gwen takes a second to ridiculously wonder why she’d even kept the blasted old thing in there when she’d emptied everything else out before the battle. Habit? The Echo? Superstition? Whatever the reason, she gains no small amount of preposterous self-righteousness about never cleaning out her bags. 

Everything is happening too quickly now. 

She pries her hands from the saddle and clumsily wrenches the focus free. She doesn’t have a spare sword stuffed away in there, but she does have a dagger in her belt, for whatever that’s worth. She doesn’t draw it. Duskfeather’s claws are more suited to aerial melee combat than a knife, not to mention the pitiful range of the small thing, and she needs to keep a hand on the reins.

Then the scalekin are on them.

The Echo rings in her head, in her vision, and she yanks Duskfeather every which way, pitching her weight side to side and leaning into every pull and turn. Her throat is raw as she shouts commands they’ve practiced for years.

Duskfeather heeds her without the slightest hesitation, dodging attacks that haven’t quite happened yet. He banks, ducks, rolls, tucks his wings and drops like a stone before unfurling them and climbing again. She throws her weight right and he curves with her, dodging snapping jaws by ilms. His talons rake the attacker’s face while Gwen throws her hand the other way, a bolt of levin and a flash of crackling force tearing another foe from the air.

Once they’re over the bridge streaks of blue and purple begin surging upwards into the cloud of aerial attackers, shooting up like arrows and striking down like levinbolts. Dragoons, leaping high and battling the airborne scalekin with their spears. 

Sometimes she thinks they might be yelling something at her, but she can’t hear a word of it. Is it because of all the chaos around them? Because of her own heartbeat, still thundering so deafeningly? Is it because her ears have frozen off? She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t really care.

Then they’re wheeling above Vishap’s head. 

She rips the dagger from her belt and leaps off Duskfeather’s back, riding a fresh wave of adrenaline and insanity that might, to some, look like courage. Duskfeather snatches another scalekin out of the air before it can change paths to follow her.

Fleche is a spell meant to be used at range, a blade of concentrated aether flung like a javelin at her opponent. Now she holds onto it, building the aetherical blade around her dagger and keeping her eyes locked on her target.

Vishap lifts its massive head to meet her fall, all malice and furious, raw hatred.

A blade of aether wobbles and shifts into being, the dagger becoming intertwined with the handle and hilt. She keeps pouring aether into it and it keeps growing, warping into a shape halfway between a sabre and a lance with a needle-find point and a wickedly sharp edge like a shard of obsidian. 

Vishap tips its head back and opens its mouth to swallow her whole, hellfire roaring up its throat as she falls between the massive rows of fangs–

Her blade hits the roof of its mouth and dives deep.

Earthshaking thunder. High pitched screams. The overwhelming stench of sulfur and metallic blood. Falling.

Gwen is…on the ground. 

She blinks dumbly at the sky. 

She’s on her back on the ground.

She’s gasping for breath and it _hurts_ , her chest aching sharply in protest as though she’s pulled every muscle in it. The air tastes too coppery and her throat is painfully raw.

Massive jaws lie on either side of her, unnaturally still and limp in the way only dead things are.

Her face is burning, frostbitten skin gradually, painfully, warming and remembering how to feel things. Her hands are burning too. And her ears. 

Her right arm is _screaming_.

So is…everyone else? The din around her certainly _sounds_ like screaming, though she can’t parse whose voices are lifted in triumph and whose are shrill with agony and defeat.

Gwen totters to her feet, head light and legs surprisingly jellylike despite being so stiff. She staggers out from between the lifeless jaws. 

The scalekin are retreating. The Temple Knights and adventurers are cheering. 

—

Gwen can’t tell what Duskfeather likes more: his role in her victory at the Steps of Faith, being fretted over and coddled, or acting snooty and pretending he despises it. 

Whatever the reason, he’s in fine spirits when they return to Revenant’s Toll days later. Despite the bandages around his midsection and left flank he carries himself like a king, head held high and chest puffed proudly. He takes no small amount of pleasure in preening and acting terribly aloof and important, beak turned up haughtily as he settles into his stall.

It’s difficult to manage his tack with only her left arm, but not impossible. She mumbles about her right arm the whole while, taking care not to bump her cast or jostle the sling or anything else that might aggravate the broken bone. Thankfully Duskfeather, in all his newfound mangominity, deigns to allow one of the stablehands to assist her. He only glares a little and makes one derisive snort. How gentlemanly.

She takes a moment to survey her tack, running her hands along the tears and abrasions. Her saddle, while still whole, is in need of repairs. There are gashes all over where scalekin claws had tried to break through the thick leather and only partially succeeded.

Ah well. A task for another time. Duskfeather won’t be flying until his wounds heal, so she has plenty of time to go about getting it repaired or replaced.

Once he’s comfortably lounging in his nest, intent on napping the day away, Gwen scratches his chin and nuzzles his forehead. “Thank you Feather,” she murmurs warmly, his feathers tickling the bridge of her nose, “You saved me, buddy.”

Duskfeather nudges her with his beak and lets out a long, steady purr, tail swishing happily. 

As Gwen makes her way towards the Rising Stones, she realizes Duskfeather might have the right idea–at least as far as the nap is concerned. Just the thought of it makes a yawn tickle its way up her throat, and she can’t help letting it out in full. She’s hardly done more than travel today, but healing is a tiring process, and she’s yet making up for pushing herself so hard during the battle at the Steps of Faith.

But first maybe she’ll write… Oh.

Gwen looks down and ponders her right arm. The break was clean, apparently, and easy to realign and set, but magic can only do so much for broken bones. Thus it had been bound up with a splint, layers and layers of bandages and multiple rigid rods that stretch from her elbow all the way to her knuckles, the whole contraption serving to hold her forearm utterly still. 

Her fingers and thumb are free, but it’s difficult to grasp and hold anything with them, especially something so small as a pencil or quill.

She sighs, scratching at the cast when a place beneath the layers of bandages begins to itch. _Maybe Y’shtola can do something… Otherwise I suppose I’ll have to try writing left-handed_. She snorts. _As if my handwriting isn’t bad enough already._

Gwen expects the Rising Stones to be mostly quiet, like it usually is. 

Instead, she pushes the door open and hears… a strange clamor of irate feminine voices somewhere near the larder?

F'lhaminn is lounging at the bar chuckling at the source of the noise, one hand daintily over her mouth in a poor attempt to muffle her smile. Tataru is looking on beside her, and there’s a suspicious, conniving air to the innocent look on her face. She brightens immediately when she sees Gwen, and hurries over to greet her.

Gwen doesn’t have time to try and figure out what all the shouting is about before Tataru has herded her into Minfilia’s office.

“Welcome back, Guinevere!” Minfilia greets with a broad but worried smile. Her kind eyes dart to Gwen’s arm and the sling it rests in and she offers a sympathetic cringe. “Alphinaud sent word of the siege. And, of course, the role you and Duskfeather played in ending it.” 

She cradles her hands to her chest, brows knit with concern. “It eases my heart to see you’re on your feet. How are you feeling?” She offers a small grin, “And how fares your noble steed?”

Gwen is more touched that she would ask after Duskfeather, and takes a moment to enjoy the warm little feeling. The other Scions more or less view him as a chocobo, or any simple mount, and don’t pay him much mind. She assures, “We’re well on the mend. We just need a bit of rest.”

Minfilia doesn’t seem terribly interested in the reports Gwen has brought, but she dutifully accepts them and sets them right in front of her chair, where she can get started on them the moment she returns to work. Then her eyes go back to Gwen’s right arm and trace her sling, lingering for a long moment before lifting to Gwen’s face, “I don’t doubt Ishgard’s healers, you understand. But, for however much it is worth, I would rest easier knowing our own healers had assessed your injuries. Would you be willing to let Y’shtola examine your arm?”

Gwen nods. That was just what she’d been thinking, too.

Minfilia breathes a sigh of relief, a measure of tension leaving her posture. “Wonderful. I’ll leave you to it. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

As she moves for the door, Gwen glances at Tataru, “Tataru, would it be possible to… place a special order?”

Tataru grins confidently, giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up, “Of course! What do you need?”

She chuckles somewhat awkwardly, sure the request will sound strange. “I’m not in much state to hunt, so I was, ah, hoping you could help me get a couple of blue gazelle?”

Tataru blinks. “Blue…gazelle. Whole?”

“Ideally,” Gwen admits.

Tataru tilts her head, “Hm… I have a contact or two who could manage it, I think. Shouldn’t be too difficult. What do you need them for?”

“Duskfeather,” Gwen says with a smile. “He’s earned a few treats.”

Tataru grins and nods. “I’ll get right on it.”

Back in the hall, Gwen finds that the chaos she’d initially walked in on is still in full swing. The Solar’s walls and door had done a remarkable job of keeping it out. 

Two distinct arguments are overlapping one another, splitting apart and then coming back together into one huge tangle before breaking off again.

“Miquo’te manstealer!” a woman’s voice rings out.

“You best watch your tongue!” Another warns.

“He said _I_ was his favorite muse!” a third insists shrilly.

“Well, _I’m_ the one who procured the rarest of ores!” a fourth shoots back. 

Tataru, face going conspicuously blank, dutifully marches away to see about acquiring the gazelles, leaving Gwen standing there, lost. 

F’lhaminn is still giggling raucously behind her hands and Gwen moves over to her, hoping she might provide some insight. As she draws near she realizes Higiri, Y’shtola, Yda and Papalymo are also observing the clamor, all of them wearing varying looks of amusement and disdain. Yda is laughing so hard she’s doubled over and clutching her sides. 

Hells, _everyone_ at the Stones seems to be watching whatever is happening. 

Gwen leans against the bar and peers around the partitions at the edge of the commonroom to find…

…Thancred standing awkwardly alongside no less than _five_ women she doesn’t recognize. Four are arguing heatedly, and _loudly_ , and one is by his side, pulling at his arm. The squabbling women look precariously close to coming to blows, while the fifth woman seems to be trying to convince him to leave and let the others sort out their problems themselves.

Thancred has the distinct air of a man neck-deep in consequences that were a long time coming. He’s wearing a pained grin and desperately trying to diffuse the situation with placating gestures and fumbling words, plainly out of his depth and floundering.

“Tis quite the scene over yonder, is it not?” F’lhaminn observes without an onze of sympathy.

“What’s going on?” Gwen asks somewhat dumbly. A prickly, weighty thing is tugging at her thoughts and settling in her gut.

“Comeuppance,” F’lhaminn replies with a laugh. “Such is the fate of he who would toy with women’s hearts. I’m curious how Thancred’s silver tongue wags its way out of this one…”

That prickly weight resolves into disapproval and irritation that has her lips pursing sourly. There’s a hint of something akin to disappointment mixed into it too, and a smidgen of something a little more painful and tender. But those are small and far away, at the tail end of the displeased things bubbling up in her chest

F’lhaminn turns from the spectacle at the other end of the room to address Gwen properly. “Ah, but we’ve more important things to discuss than well-earned consequences, don’t we? How are you faring, Guinevere? I understand your latest victory was a rather stunning feat, if the stories are to be believed.”

“I, ah…” Gwen’s brows tug together and sink in the middle, and she sets her jaw. She offers F’lhaminn a somewhat stiff smile and a stiffer shrug. _Well enough, all things considered._ The motion makes a twinge of pain shiver down her arm, but nothing more. “I was hoping to borrow Y’shtola?”

F’lhaminn nods, gesturing towards where Y’shtola is, rather miserably, watching the chaos unfold. “Methinks she’d be glad for the distraction.”

Gwen tilts her head in thanks and, carefully, as if moving too quickly might draw the ire of the arguing women, approaches the conjurer. Her bubbling annoyance gains a twinge of indignation and it butts up against a quiet, half-empty sort of hurt at the bottom of her chest. A sheen of longstanding, if thin, logic softens all of it, but only so much.

_Open, remember?_

_I know that. So did he. But did_ they _?_

_Fair. But is that all it is, though?_

…Maybe not. But it is _most_ of it. 

The other part is… complicated, and a lot more tangled than she’s ready to deal with right now.

Gwen pushes that aside for later, leaning towards simple logic, righteous annoyance and sour indignation instead.

Whatever it was she and Thancred had, they’d _agreed to it_. They’d _talked_ about it and come to an _understanding._ Anything more that might have developed in the moons since is something else. But she highly doubts the group of paramours had the same sort of agreement or understanding, given the way they’re shouting at one another.

And _that_ is what’s wrinkling Gwen’s nerves most of all. Thancred is a flirt, sure, and cocky besides, and he’s not shy about finding and taking partners, but she’d thought him –and he’d acted, for all intents and purposes– at least _honest_ and _upfront_ about it.

Apparently not. 

That thought itches. A lot.

“And then! And _then!_ ” The hyuran woman whirls on Thancred, brown hair whipping behind her. “You disappeared! Vanished without so much as a word!”

“Aye! Just up and vanished!” The miner agrees, pointing an accusing finger. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in _weeks_!”

“Where have you _been_?” the elezen woman who’d been declaring herself his favorite muse demands.

“ _Clearly_ not with _you_ ,” the purported ‘miquo’te manstealer’ snarks back, green eyes flashing.

Before Thancred has to say so much as a word in his own defense the four have gone back to squabbling amongst themselves.

Gwen shakes her head, pulling her attention away from the fighting. She does her best to mentally shut out that half of the room, the cast on her arm suddenly chafing. Why did she have to break her _right_ arm? Oh well, illegible as the writing might be, she’s going to try it anyway. 

Y’shtola is wearing a look of blatant exasperation and pinching the bridge of her nose as if she’s trying to stave off a headache. Seeing Gwen approaching, she practically begs, “Pray tell me you’ve come to spare me from this nonsense?”

Gwen gestures at her arm, “The Ishgardian healers did what they could, but would you mind taking a look?” She nods meaningfully towards the Dawn’s Respite, “Perhaps somewhere quieter?”

Y’shtola heaves a grateful sigh, “Gladly. Come,” and turns brusquely away from the fighting.

Against her better judgement, Gwen glances back towards the bickering one more time– just in time to see Thancred ease back a step, looking like he has half a mind to try and sneak away. He casts a pleading look around in search of help, and his wandering gaze immediately finds her.

Shock barely has a chance to register before it’s replaced with something stricken and not unlike distress. His features tilt and droop with dismay in a way that makes him look very much like an antelope in hunter’s sights, or a thief caught in the act.

He hesitates, glancing between her and the bickering women, then offers a stiff, feeble shrug and an awkward half-smile, half-cringe. Then he sees her sling, her arm, and the weak attempt at levity –or contrition?– falls flat. 

Gwen arranges her expression into something properly unamused and disapproving, her mouth tugging down at the corners. She has the urge to cross her arms, and settles instead for cradling her cast.

She meets his eye. Then she blatantly surveys the rampant arguing, her lips pursing. Then she looks back at him. _You got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out._

She turns to follow Y’shtola with a definite air of dismissal.

Behind her, there’s a distressingly loud _smack_ sound. The shouts abruptly erupt into screeching and yowling.

And she’d thought the battle at the Steps of Faith had been bad… Well, at least she doesn’t have to take part in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :DD
> 
> Oh man, this prompt was SO MUCH EASIER than most of the others have been @_@
> 
> Yeah, Gwen got extra AF with the Steps of Faith trial lol. I’ve had the idea forever of her getting tossed off the bridge and Duskfeather saving her.
> 
> The second half didn’t quite go how I wanted, but I still think it came out pretty good and got across what I intended :D (that’s one of the best in-game scenes at the Stones, imo lol)


	9. Lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lush – adjective  
>  (of vegetation) growing luxuriantly.  
> very rich and providing great sensory pleasure._  
> 
> 
> Set a few days after Clamor & Specific

It feels like it’s been _ages_ since Gwen last had the opportunity to simply sit and soak in a bath, and longer still since she’d actually taken advantage of it. Yet recovering from the Steps of Faith, with orders to take it easy and her arm bound in a fresh cast, Gwen decides now is the perfect time to do just that. 

She draws a hot bath and takes the time to straighten up the clutter on her bathroom counter. When the tub is almost full she adds fragrant oils, soaking salts and bubbling powder, deciding to make the most of the opportunity. The surface quickly vanishes beneath a layer of light foam and bubbles, steam the scent of lush flowers and sweet fruits quickly filling the whole bathroom. She’s sure she’ll be smelling hints of it in her bedroom for days to come and smiles to herself at the pleasing prospect, in her opinion.

The water is just cool enough not to sting as she settles in the tub. She carefully arranges a hand towel on the rim that she can rest her broken arm on to keep it clear of the water. 

She leans against the edge of the tub and frowns mildly at her cast. Having a broken arm is proving more annoying than she anticipated. For one thing, bathing is something of a chore when she can’t use one arm _and_ has to keep that arm from getting wet. She can’t use her right hand to write, either, and her attempts with her left have produced less than stellar results. If there’s a way to braid one-handed, she hasn’t figured it out yet–though, in all honesty, it has been a nice change of pace to leave her hair down all the time… even though that tends to lead to more tangles and knots than she’s accustomed to. Clothes with sleeves are a hassle, too, and ones that are at all fitted currently refuse to cooperate.

Tataru had said the hunters would be bringing Duskfeather’s antelopes within a few days, and Gwen isn’t sure what she’s going to do about that, either. With two arms she wouldn’t have any difficulty hauling around the creatures. But with only one? She wonders if Yda or either of the Boulder brothers might be willing to do the heavy lifting for her.

Gwen heaves a pleasantly perfumed sigh and sinks back against the edge of the bathtub. Now is supposed to be for relaxing, not pouting about her broken arm. She pushes those thoughts away and instead focuses on luxuriating in the bath, soaking up the soothing heat and pleasant fragrance, reminding herself she’s supposed to be taking this time to _relax_ and _unwind_.

She sinks down a little lower, hot water lapping at her collarbone, and focuses on the subtle sensation of tight muscles loosening and stiffness melting away. She listens to the myriad pops and cracks as she points and flexes her feet, rolls her shoulders, stretches her neck, and savors the bursts of relief that accompanies each little sound. All of the small aches and pains that have been pinching and pulling at her back and shoulders gradually soften and fade as the heat soaks into her bones, soothing enough that it starts to lull her into a doze. 

Water tickling her chin stirs her from her half-nap. She hums and stretches out as long as the confines of the tub will allow, reaching arms over her head pressing her toes against the far side. The last bits of tension squeeze out of her muscles, her back and shoulders making a few deep cracks that inspire a mildly obscene sound of satisfaction.

She slumps back down into the water and, as an afterthought, readjusts the hand towel and resettles her broken arm. 

After a few minutes of languid contentment she turns to survey her collection of soaps and lathers. She has the time to give her hair a bit of extra care, and after the Coerthan air and the way the ice and wind tore at it during her fall, it could certainly use it. Seeing how she’s already decided to make her bath something of a luxurious experience anyway, she may as well go all out.

Although… Hm. Washing her hair might prove a bit difficult. 

When the bathwater is nearly cold Gwen finally climbs out of the tub. As she’d predicted, washing her hair had been a bit tedious, but not so much so as to spoil her pleasant, languid mood. 

She towels dry and rummages through the collection of jars and vials on her sink, idly noting the room smells most strongly of honeysuckle, jasmine and pears. She likely does, too. She makes a mental note to buy more of those particular soaps and oils when she gets the chance, as she’s only grown more fond of the scents every time she’s used them. 

Working nourishing creams into her hair and combing it out is a bit of a challenge, as is drying it, but not so much as washing had been. Lotion for her skin is less of a hassle, though her right arm has to go without thanks to the cast, with the exception of her fingers.

After tugging on loose, comfortable pants, a snug, sleeveless top and an oversized sweater with sleeves wide enough to negotiate her cast through, she steps out of the bathroom, fully refreshed and relaxed. Glancing at the chronometer, she finds she had spent well over a bell luxuriating. Despite having next to nothing to do _but_ take time for herself, the realization still inspires a little twinge of guilt.

There are flowers on her desk, she finally notices. A handful of purple and white blooms with sprays of lush greenery in between, all neatly arranged in one of her vases.

Gwen tilts her head curiously, tugging at her sleeves as she wanders over to it.

Hyacinths and dahlias. Some of her favorites. She smiles to herself and leans in to smell them, delight tickling in her chest. 

She glances around and finds no one waiting to surprise her or take credit. Her door is locked… or, well, she’s _fairly certain_ it is, but perhaps she’d forgotten after breakfast. 

One of the purple dahlias is bent at an awkward angle, and a bit of shifting around reveals the culprit to be a nick in the stem.

Gwen hums to herself and frees the wounded flower, laying it gently aside. Then she fixes the arrangement to fill in the gap left behind, nudging the blooms and shifting the leaves. The minor blemish does nothing to dampen the thoughtful gesture, or the pleasant warmth that’s mingling with all that satisfied, easy contentment from her long bath.

She uses her nails to clip the stem at its weak spot and tucks the flower behind her ear, taking a moment at the mirror to make sure it’s sitting nicely.

On a whim, she glances around the desk in search of… something. A note, maybe. Some clue as to who had left the flowers, though she has a good idea who is responsible. She finds nothing but her strewn papers, an alchemy tome, a few leve reports that need finishing, and the mysterious bouquet.

Hm.

She ponders the flowers and her own fond feelings about them as she heads out to check on Duskfeather.  
  


Duskfeather’s stall is clean. Spotless, even.

Gwen stands at the door, blinking dumbly at the sight. It’s plain enough everything has been cleaned and refreshed, but sheer surprise makes processing the sight take several moments longer than it should.

It’s above and beyond standard upkeep and maintenance, too. The stall is _spotless_. There’s hardly a stray feather or bit of down to be found. The floor is coated in a new, thick layer of bedding and woodchips that’s been carefully raked flat. Duskfeather has already taken the liberty of arranging the fresh nesting material into a comfy bed and is lounging contentedly. Even the water trough has been scrubbed clean and refilled.

Well. This… certainly saves her the trouble of having to do it one-handed?

Seeing her dumbfounded look, one of the stablehands volunteers, “Fellow did a pretty good job, didn’t he? Took him a while.”

‘Fellow?’ Gwen tilts her head curiously, giving the man an inquiring look.

“One of the other Scions, uh… Blast, what’s his name?” He waves a hand towards the Rising Stones, “The white-haired fellow, the one who’s so good with the ladies.”

She blinks. “Oh?”

He’d… cleaned Duskfeather’s stall? Why?

The stablehand pauses, studying her expression. He suddenly begins to look unsure, “He seemed to know what he was doing, even lured your bird out into the paddock with some mutton like he’d done it a million times, so we just sort of,” he gestures vaguely, “left him to it. I mean, he’s one of the senior Scions and all, so we… assumed that was alright.”

Gwen offers a slight smile and a reassuring nod while she processes that, twirling her hair around her fingers. “It is, it is. He just, ah… didn’t tell me what he was up to, is all.”

He grins somewhat awkwardly, visibly relieved.

She leans forward on her toes, then back on her heels. “So he… did all this himself?”

“He did. I offered to give him a hand and he turned me down. I tried to tell him he didn’t need to worry about the bedding; we put fresh stuff in before you got back a few days ago.” The stablehand shrugs, bemused, “But he insisted.”

Gwen hums thoughtfully, a perplexing blend of lingering shock, appreciation, and satisfaction that’s partially petty and partially not swirling around in her head. It doesn’t quite blend together right, all slightly off-key from one another and tugging her mind in different directions all at once. 

Duskfeather, at least, seems perfectly happy with the development. He’s lying in his freshly made nest and lazing around as if he’d never been disturbed at all. Thankfully his wounds don’t seem to be troubling him, nor does it look like they interfered with him making his nest.

“Did he change Feather’s bandages?” Gwen asks.

The stablehand laughs, “Said he’d leave that to you, as he enjoys having hands.”

Right. She’ll handle that, then. Seeing how Duskfeather is in such a good mood, he likely won’t make too much fuss about it. 

Gwen carefully cracks a door open, finding the room beyond empty. Water is running in the attached bathroom, and she hears the sounds of faint muttering and furious scrubbing.

It’s impressive how much the smell of old feathers and bedding –both new and old– can cling to someone while they’re cleaning out a stall. Gwen has firsthand experience with that.

There are some remedies for it, just as there are for the smell of chocobo musk. There are even some that don’t leave the user smelling overly much like tomatoes or some other potent herbaceous blend that, really, isn’t all that much better than the smell they’re trying to get rid of.

She eases inside just enough to reach out and place a little vial of oil on the dresser, then makes a hasty exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Methinks _someone_ is trying make amends and get out of the doghouse lol 
> 
> This was fun to write :D I originally wanted to do a followup to Sway but it just wasn’t happening @_@ I’m really happy with this, though :D Gwen getting some me time and getting to treat herself!
> 
> Tyty @rhymingteelookatme for giving it a read and making some corrections!! :D you’re the best!!


	10. Avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Avail - verb  
>  1\. help or benefit.  
> 2\. use or take advantage of (an opportunity or available resource)_

It’s a…. Challenging day, for some reason.

It shouldn’t be. The weather is pleasant enough, and Revenant’s Toll is quiet–or as quiet as a place stuffed to the brim with Adventurers can get. 

There is the small matter of the latent tension hanging about the Stones as the Scions wait for reports or any news on Eorzea’s latest threat, but that’s hardly new. They’re used to this certain level of latent apprehension by this point.

Thancred’s impromptu patrol has been quiet, too. No ruffians have taken up squatting in the ruins of the camp west of town, and to the east no gigas are harrying any travelers or the good people at Saint Coinach’s Find. It’s so quiet that his patrol is really more of a leisurely stroll around Mor Dhona. 

So quiet that, on a pricklier and more pessimistic day, he might’ve found it suspicious. 

But he’s not prickly and pessimistic today. He’s not particularly happy either, and the fair weather isn’t helping.

Instead there’s an unpleasant ache resonating in his chest, something dreary and hollow that has tinged the world with faint gray. There’s a hole somewhere that he doesn’t know how to close, and it’s making a sort of… absence lean on his senses. It’s similar to the feeling of sensing another’s presence in a room, the feeling of knowing someone is there, even if he can’t see them, but utterly the opposite. No one is there. Or, perhaps, someone is missing.

It’s a needy sort of feeling that makes him feel paper thin in some ways and heavy as stone in others. It makes him want things like solitude and quiet, time alone so he can _breathe_ , and yet also crave the company of others, though more their presence than their attention.

Which is why he spontaneously set out on this… Stroll, really. It almost feels strange to call it anything else.

And with no distractions and nothing better to do, he’s been picking at that feeling like a ball of old twine. Maybe taking it apart will help, or maybe it won’t. It certainly seems to help Gwen. But he’s not Gwen. Maybe taking it apart will at least let him understand it better. Or maybe he’ll have a bunch of pieces to juggle instead of just the one. Maybe it’s just something to do.

Thancred kicks a rock and watches it bounce and skitter away.

Sometimes he tries to talk to the air while he’s out alone like this, particularly when he’s in such a low mood. Thinking out loud. Talking out problems. He’s resolved many a problem and untangled many a knot and bramble while wandering around talking under his breath.

Sometimes, when it won’t cut quite so keenly, he tries to talk to Minfilia. To remind himself, and her, that he hasn’t forgotten about her. But also because, despite his better judgment, he can’t quite let go of the tiny sliver of hope that he might get some sort of response.

He never does. Today has been no different.

He’s not surprised, yet it makes his heart ache and his shoulders hang a little heavy.

Thancred should’ve been back at the Toll most of half a bell ago. Maybe even earlier, given how peaceful and quiet everything is. Instead he’s loitering off the side of the road and kicking rocks.

So he wanders around searching for the rock he’d kicked, counting and dragging out the minutes. He’s well aware his reasoning is selfish and childish, but the acknowledgement feels more like a minor sting than a proper deterrent.  
  


When Thancred returns, properly late, from his patrol Gwen is reading in the commonroom, even though she normally prefers to do so in the peace and quiet of her room. The sight is more comforting than he wants to admit, even as his conscience twinges at him for availing himself of her tendency to worry. 

She looks up before he has to resort to knocking on the table to get her attention, finally pulling herself from the pages, or maybe her own head. 

Surprise registers first, and it quickly dissolves into a friendly smile and more than a hint of relief. “Welcome back.” 

For want of something to say – _a rare occurrence_ , he thinks dryly– he settles for a lopsided smile and a simple nod.

She tilts her head curiously, subtle signs of worry in the bend of her mouth and the angle of her brows.“You were gone for a while.” 

Funny that she gets so worried when others are late when she, herself, is not terribly given to punctuality. 

“T’was a lovely day,” Thancred replies airily, “I thought I may as well enjoy it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one was more of a struggle than I expected it to be @_@
> 
> Had half an idea and ran with it and it came out….pretty ok, I think. This was definitely one of those things that would’ve wound up languishing in my drafts forever if I wasn’t writing it for this challenge XD Ah well.
> 
> Endings. What are they even.


	11. Ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ultracrepidarian - Noun_  
>  A person who expresses opinions on matters outside the scope of their knowledge or expertise.

Thancred steps into the kitchen and pauses. There’s a curious, somewhat salty tang in the air that somehow doesn’t quite smell like food.

Gwen seems to be the perpetrator, standing at the stove and minding two small pots. Her mortar and pestle, a few little piles of ground herbs and a few dark jars are laid out on the counter beside her.

Also beside her is Alphinaud, sitting doubled-over on a stool and clutching his stomach. He looks absolutely miserable.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t seem to be paying the suffering scholar much mind. She’s not even fretting over him like she normally does when her companions fall ill, though she is casting him the occasional concerned glance.

Her expression is edging into something like exasperation, and her jaw is shifting subtly in such a way as to hint that she’s worrying the inside of her cheek. Resigned and a bit vexed, then. 

Odd.

“You look hellish,” Thancred says conversationally, sidling up beside the two and peering at Gwen’s assorted reagents.

It earns him a glower from Alphinaud and a mildly disapproving pout from Gwen. He disregards both.

One pot is half-full of thick, clear liquid, while the other holds a cloudy, pale concoction of some kind. He has no idea what either could be. Nor does he gain any clues from the herbs and jars, aside from the fact the dark glass at contents that disagrees with exposure to light. 

“Nothing life-threatening, I hope?” Thancred asks. And hopefully nothing contagious, though they likely wouldn’t be in the kitchen like this if that were the case.

Alphinaud shakes his head slowly, turning his glower on the ground. “I was attempting to create a potion too–” His face goes a big green and he shudders. He drops his head between his knees, “Ugh…”

The rogue nods sympathetically, “I gather the results failed to exceed expectations.”

The young scholar makes a longsuffering sound of affirmation.

Thancred looks to Gwen, “And you’re concocting a cure?”

She nods, adding a few pinches of ground herbs to the clear pot and stirring exactly four times in one direction, then once in the other. The addition seems to have no effect until the final stir, when the color abruptly turns deep red.

Alphinaud grouses, “And it’s taking bloody _ages_ … How much longer, Gwen?”

“About ten minutes.” Her level tone hints that she’s been asked for similar updates every minute.

He groans like that’s the absolute worst answer she could’ve given. “Why?”

The question catches her off guard for a moment, then she simply shakes her head and shrugs, _It can’t be helped. Sorry._

“Why don’t you just combine everything at once? The antidote would be ready by now. I even brewed that potion in half the time.” Alphinaud asks somewhat petulantly. Given how truly sick he looks, Thancred can’t _quite_ find it in him to be annoyed at his tone.

 _Antidote_? And here Thancred had thought this little bout of illness was just Alphinaud’s slapdash attempt disagreeing with his stomach. He’d actually gone and _poisoned_ himself. Not too badly, apparently, given that Gwen looks more exasperated than worried. If Alphinaud were truly in peril she’d be tugging at her hair or pacing with some sort of stricken look on her face.

Gwen shoots Alphinaud a flat, dubious look that he doesn’t see because his head is between his knees. _And look where we are now._

She doesn’t say anything, so Thancred does instead, “Because that worked so well for you, after all.”

Alphinaud puts a hand over his mouth to suppress a belch then glares balefully at him.

Thancred replies with a puckish grin. “There’s something to be said for patience, my friend.”

Alphinaud folds his arms and turns away with a huff. He shudders, hunches a little, then looks up at Gwen.

“Eight minutes,” she says before he can ask again.

Alphinaud props his elbows on his knees and drops his head on his folded arms with a sound of utter defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT **EVEN**
> 
> It wasn’t _too_ difficult to get an idea of what to write once I found the definition, “oh yeah, have someone talking like they know something when they don’t.” But actually _writing_ , all the details, who, what, why, etc, was pretty challenging to hammer out.
> 
> Still, I like how it turned out!
> 
> 0 people I have said this word to have known what it was (I didn’t either) and 3 said I made it up. Though, to be fair: *insert GIF of Thor from Infinity War: "All words are made up."*


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tooth and nail - adverb_  
>  with all one’s resources or energy; fiercely
> 
> _(cw: descriptions of post-fight injuries and being poisoned/drugged.)_
> 
> Takes place during Post-HVW MSQ “Consequences”)

Ten minutes, Thancred had said. Ten minutes for Gwen to try and wait out the lingering symptoms of the poison she’d been dosed with, make sure Falcon’s Nest wouldn’t fall apart in their absence, and try to find Honoroit –”If you truly must.”– then they were heading back to Ishgard to deliver the news of the disastrous Conference. His tone had brooked no room for argument.

She took extra care to mind the time, as being late would likely have Thancred assuming the worst. They’d already had _quite enough_ excitement for one day and she had no desire to add to it, plus his mood was already poor enough.

Ten fruitless minutes later Gwen trudges up the ramp to the landing platform, shoulders hunched and spirits low. The garrison’s morale is understandably poor and there’s naught to be done about it, though it seems her departure isn’t cause for it to deteriorate further. There was no sign of Honoroit anywhere, and the people she’d spoken with hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

Her stomach rolls and twists, a weak, nauseous ache permeating her limbs that shivers up her throat whenever she moves too quickly. She’d retched up the tainted wine the moment she was able, but it had plainly been in her system long enough for its effects to linger. 

_If I knew what was in it, I could maybe try and counteract it somehow…_ But she doesn’t, and the woman who does is likely dead.

The landing platform is deserted and quiet, the chocobo stables practically empty compared to when she’d arrived. Apparently she’s the one that has to wait for Thancred for a change.

Whoever is supposed to be on watch has abandoned their duty for the moment, and no one around to see her wander past the gates. The wind is faster and sharper without buildings or mountains to block it, cutting through her outer layers and straight down to her bones. She shivers harshly and crosses her arms tightly across her chest as her bangs whip her face and her ears burn themselves numb, missing the sweltering heat of the barracks. At least the sharp chill doesn’t make her feel ill.

Gwen sweeps her eyes across the empty platform, wondering where Honoroit could have gone, and what he might’ve been thinking. There’s no way he just up and abandoned Emmanellain, surely? He’s stuck to his master’s side like glue through everything until now. He couldn’t possibly…

There’s a lump on the far side of the platform. A small figure with brown hair dressed in familiar blue and white garb. It looks sort of like–

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Honoroit?”

He twitches and raises his head, peering blankly at her as she rushes over to him. “M-Miss Ashe?” he croaks, confused. 

“Hush, hush, don’t talk,” she chides gently, panic and worry tightening like vices around in her chest as she kneels to inspect his wounds. 

Bruises are splattered across every ilm of bare skin, and his clothes are torn and dirtied with patterns that distinctly resemble boot prints. His face is mostly black and blue with a nasty cut over his brow and on his lips, one of his eyes swollen nearly shut. 

Honoroit tries to sit up, slow and careful as he shifts his weight and favors his right side. He only makes it halfway before he grimaces and sinks back to the ground with a pained sound. 

A fresh surge of concern mutes the dismayed, impotent static buzzing through her thoughts. Questions and anger can wait. She lays a light, comforting hand on his arm and hopes she isn’t touching a sore spot. “Be still, Honoroit…”

He needs to get somewhere warm, first of all, as his lips are distressingly blue. Ideally that will be somewhere with a healer, as her initial assessment of his injuries isn’t good. Even natives of Ishgard aren’t immune to the cold, and she has no idea how long he’s been out here lying on frozen stone. But how to move him without worsening his injuries….

“Honoroit!!” Emmanellain’s distraught voice cries from behind her.

She lifts her head as two sets of footsteps rapidly approach, the nobleman making panicked sounds every step of the way with Thancred, expression grim, just behind him. 

When Emmanellain is finally able to see the extent of Honoroit’s injuries his face twists with horror and he drops to his knees by Gwen’s side. “No, no! What have they done to you!?” 

He reaches towards Honoroit, and Gwen puts an arm in his way. He whirls on her, his stricken glare demanding an explanation. 

She tries to appear calmer than she feels and makes a mollifying gesture, shaking her head. _You shouldn’t move him._

A wash of different emotions twist Emmanellains face one way and then another, and he looks like he has half a mind to shout at her. Instead he makes an aggravated, high-pitched whining sound and slaps his hands down on the stone ground.

“Is that you, my lord?” Honoroit offers a feeble smile and struggles for a light tone, as if making a jest, “You… you seem rather flustered.”

“Because of you, you imbecile!” Emmanellain exclaims, “What in the seven hells happened to you!?” 

“My… my apologies… Some few of the guests expressed a wish to leave…and I implored them to stay.” He makes a weak imitation of a laugh, “It would seem they took issue with my request.”

Rings would explain the small cuts and abrasions in the bruises on his face… 

Gwen’s stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with the poison she’d been dosed with. All of her worried thoughts take on a frazzled, angry edge that wears at her already thinned nerves. A twinge in her clenched jaw and a telltale ache shooting from her teeth to her temples signal that she successfully kicked off a headache.

“Gods forgive me…” Emmanellain groans, burying his face in his hands. “If I had only been more careful with my words!”

“Do not blame yourself my lord,” the younger elezen insists. “I know… I know that you and your brother have Ishgard’s best interests at heart. That poor woman… She lives in the past, clinging to memories of the lost.”

He’s admirably composed considering everything that’s happened, even accounting for the fact he’s generally more mature and levelheaded than his master. Empathy for the dissidents and protesters has only made his conviction for Aymeric’s cause that much stronger. 

“But the future holds so much promise. So much joy. And you…” His voice wavers and Gwen tenses, her heart skipping a beat. “You… know that better than any…” His words fade to nothing and his eyes slip closed. Then his head lolls to his chest.

Gwen immediately checks his pulse. It’s steady, thank the Twelve, as is his labored breathing, but his complexion has gone frighteningly pale. 

“Honoroit?!” Emmanellain half rises, panicked. His mouth works uselessly for a moment before he turns his fearful eyes on Gwen, “Gwen, do something!” 

Her chest constricts sharply and she freezes

Ever since the Vault she can’t…

 _Couldn’t,_ a small voice corrects. Y’shtola has been tutoring her for more than a moon, and she’s made enough progress that she’s begun regaining the ability to use healing magic. It’s feeble and terribly taxing, a far cry from the white and red magic she used to wield, but she _can_ manage it. As she is now, weakened by that poison and with a fresh host of doubts welling up and knotting in her chest…

But Honoroit needs help. And she _can_ help, at least minorly.

She bites her lip, voices she’ll never hear again murmuring at her in time with her heartbeat. One rings out louder than the others, gentle despite the volume.

 _For those we have lost. For those we can yet save_. 

She can’t fully mend his wounds, but she can at least ease his pain. No matter what her clinging doubts try to mutter, she knows she _can_ do _something_. Not much, maybe, but not nothing, and that’s enough. It has to be. However draining it is on her, she’ll manage. She’s had worse, after all, and she can rest and recover once they’re back in Ishgard. For now… She has to at least _try_. 

Gwen takes a steadying breath and makes a clear place in her mind before holding a hand over Honoroit’s chest. She closes her eyes and breathes, gathering her focus and recalling Y’shtola’s patient instructions, replaying the simple exercises they’d practiced for bells. When it all feels solid enough to work with, she begins to mumble an incantation.

As the spell takes shape a weak light flickers to life under her hand, drifting over Honoroit like mist. She senses bruises of all shapes and sizes, cuts, cracked bones… no internal bleeding or anything blatantly life-threatening, at least. It’s an issue of quantity, the sheer multitude of otherwise-lesser injuries amounting to something more severe. 

With the injuries assessed, she shifts her intention to healing. Immediately the spell begins to pull at her in earnest, drawing out her energy and replacing it with intangible weight that begins to pile on her shoulders.

Even a layman could tell that her conjury is that of a novice, at best. But, feeble as it is, it’s still enough to slowly mend cracked bones and knit broken skin, and the cuts on his lips and brow gradually close. Hopefully he’ll be able to rest a little easier.

She knows it won’t be long before fatigue settles in, but hopefully Thancred and Duskfeather will make sure she at least gets back to Ishgard before she falls asleep on her feet. Her head is still pounding a dull rhythm, and she’s sure it will likely start to worsen soon, too. _It’s fine… So long as the spell is working, it’s fine._

“He’ll live, but it’s imperative we get him inside and into the care of a chirurgeon once he’s stable,” Thancred says calmly. With any luck his steady composure will help Emmanellain pull himself together. “Gwen can only do so much.”

“Only so much?!” Emmanellain demands shrilly.

Gwen winces, squeezing her eyes more tightly shut against the kick of doubt and frustration that tries to crack her barely-solidified concentration. She screws up her mouth and works to ignore that, too.

Thancred’s tone hardens, “It’s a sight more than either of us can offer, unless you have knowledge of conjury that you’ve been keeping secret.”

Emmanellain struggles for a response, half syllables coming out one after another before he settles for an angry hiss. “Gah! We were so close! Why does it all have to fall to pieces!? Don’t they _want_ to live in peace!? Don’t they _want_ to be happy!? We all want the same thing, and still– STILL it falls to pieces!”

The words buzz in her ears like stinging bugs, the volume piercing her focus. Suddenly she can feel sweat gathering on the back of her neck despite the wintry chill, and the edges of her vision are doing strange things. 

“Tell me, what–what was I supposed to do, hm?!” He demands, a desperate, petulant twinge cracking his voice. 

She can _feel_ the way each throb of her head rattles the focus she’d worked so hard to gather, pain and exertion freely jostling her thoughts. 

He stomps his foot furiously, “Someone, anyone, tell me: _what was I supposed to do!?_ ” 

Her vision warps and her headache throbs in her teeth. The spell unravels in her thoughts and on her tongue, and she abandons the incantation with a pained groan. 

It’s hard enough to heal Honoroit between her struggles with conjury, the headache, and the lingering symptoms of poison, and now Emannelain is making it all worse by _yelling_. 

She drops her head into her hands and gulps steadying breaths, fingers icy and numb against her pounding head. _Stop being dizzy, stop being dizzy…_ She isn’t sure if it’s her numbed fingers or a genuine fever making her skin so hot to the touch, but the sheen of sweat suggests the latter.

His voice cracks with panic when he realizes she’s stopped her healing spell. “What are you doing?! Don’t stop!”

The Banquet, the Vault, Azys Lla, the Antitower, faces she’ll never see again, and _too many other godsamned things_ shove up up against the inside of her skull until her head feels like it’s going to split in two. 

All at once her throat itches with a stifled scream, her eyes sting and her chest aches like she sprinted for malms without stopping. 

She doesn’t know what she should do, what she _wants_ to do, but her nerves are bristling, her heart is pounding, and her body is thrumming with desperate, impotent fury, and she’s so _sick_ and _tired_ of _losing people_ , of _failing_ , of being so _useless_ – of– of–

A hand clamps on her shoulder and gives one firm shake. 

Her thoughts upend and crash back to the earth, abruptly deflating and crumbling into splinters and shards.

“Breathe.”

She sucks in a mouthful of wintry air and chokes on the cold. After a few tries she catches her breath enough to loosen some of the knots in her chest. When did she start holding her breath…?

Gwen’s head is still a litlte woozy as she looks up. Thancred is leaning over her, his mouth set in a firm grimace and his expression woodenly calm. He twitches his head towards Honoroit, _Focus. Heal him._

The tide of anger and adrenaline passes as quickly as it came, taking the dizzy spell and a modicum of her headache with it. Gwen wipes the sting out of her eyes in place of shaking her head, pushing away the briars and splinters clinging to the inside of her head. She’s no less overwhelmed than she had been a minute ago, but she’s pushed off the worst of it for the moment. That’s good enough.

Thancred releases her shoulder, straightens and turns to face Emmanellain. The nobleman is being surprisingly quiet, perhaps realizing he’d overstepped.

She counts the breaths hissing between her teeth and grasps for calm, pushing her shoulders down and trying to clear her mind. The sight of Honoroit, battered and unconcious, is sobering enough to quell the last simmering strains of irritation and get her mind back in line again.

She closes her eyes and re-gathers her focus through the haze of her headache, trying to ignore the briefly-forgotten fatigue that’s still hanging on her shoulders. _Twelve_ but white magic is so much more taxing than it had ever been–than it _should_ be.

Gwen rests her hand on Honoroit’s chest to center herself and stubbornly, purposefully mumbles the incantation over and over until the sounds and shapes of the words hollow out a big enough place to hold her concentration. 

Emmanellain speaks, “Well? If you have something to say, say it!”

The spell takes shape again, magic trickling from her into Honoroit and flowing out to the worst injuries yet in need of attention. She can feel that the spell is weaker than before, that it’s working more slowly, but it’s still helping. That’s what matters. 

Thancred’s voice is hard and flat, scolding, “Stop looking to others. You make your choice and you live with the consequences.”

There’s brief sputtering followed by a few harsh, seething breaths.

Suddenly there’s a short, hard impact. Instinct identifies the sound before her mind can: a punch.

“And what would _you_ know about consequences!?” Emmanellain spits bitterly. “You, who always knows just what to say and just what to do! Your every deed is greeted with a round of applause!”

Gwen winces away from the words, bitterly wondering how fate’s timing could be so spectacularly terrible. There couldn’t be a _worse_ time for such perfectly aimed words. Matoya’s cave and the Antitower are scarcely a sennight behind them. People claim fate likes to ‘jest’, and apparently its sense of humor is twisted and cruel. 

All at once the air grows close and heavy, bristling with energy like the calm before a storm. Apprehension tightens across her back and she catches the inside of her cheek in her teeth, worrying thoughtlessly at it. It is _much_ too quiet…

A much louder, harder impact rings out, more like a thunderclap than a drumbeat. 

Emmanellain’s yelp of pain is abruptly cut off by the heavy, metallic thud of a chainmailed body hitting stone ground.

Thancred’s voice is low and furious, the point of a knife sinking home. “You know _nothing_ about me. I have fought tooth and nail for the people I hold dear– done _everything_ in my power to save them, to protect them…and I have failed.” A beat of silence filled with a harsh breath, “Learn to live with it. I have.”

A heavy feeling settles in her stomach, apprehension morphing into worry that convinces her turn her head. She opens her eyes and peeks over her shoulder, keeping the majority of her focus on her tenuous spell. 

Thancred is standing over Emmanellain with a face like a thunderstorm, fists clenched tight at his sides. Emmanellain stares silently up at him, frozen in shock. 

Thancred seems unharmed, while one side of Emmanellain’s face is rapidly darkening and his jaw is hanging at a slightly awkward angle that suggests it might be broken. 

Gwen has never heard Thancred so furious before. She’s never seen him _snap_. He spat those words like curses, like they’re a burden he’s suffered and agonized over for ages without reprieve. They speak of a kind of deep ache and near-hateful sort of guilt that Gwen is much too familiar with. 

Thancred turns brusquely on his heel and storms away in silence. 

Gwen avoids Emmanellain’s gaze and turns back to Honoroit. 

She immediately resolves to talk to him, but not until he’s had time to cool off and settle out. She’ll do what she can for Honoroit first, then she’ll go after him.

Gwen is more than a little wobbly on her feet as she staggers back down the ramp into Falcon’s Nest. Her vision is behaving itself, but her head is throbbing, her legs are weak, and her stomach is refusing to settle down. 

Though it took entirely too much effort, she still finds no small amount of satisfaction in successfully managing healing magic again. She’s improving, slowly but surely.

Casting her eyes around the open square turns up nothing, and she rubs at her heavy eyelids with a pout. She’ll have to go searching, then. But where to start? On a whim, she turns for the barracks.

She finds Thancred in an out-of-the way spot a stone’s throw from where she’d hidden earlier to purge the tainted wine from her system and wait for her grasp on conciousness to solidify. He’s leaning against the wall and radiating the air of a man better left alone, arms crossed tightly across his chest and a stony glower on his face. 

He glances up as she approaches, shrewdly scrutinizing the rhythm of her steps and the way she’s carrying herself.

Concern, discomfort and reemourse coil around her chest and tie knots in her head, images of Matoya’s cave flitting past her vision. She takes a slow breath, feeling a bit like she’s readying to try more healing magic. 

Mourning and grief do crazy things to people, and no one handles it the same. Gwen knows that. She withdraws, physically and mentally, growing hollow and distant and numb. She wilts and shrinks, always drained and slow as if she’s wrapped in a layer of lead that separates her from the world, trying to insulate and protect herself. She hasn’t yet mastered pulling herself out of it, but she’s always –eventually– managed it with the help of her friends.

Thancred closes himself off and binds himself to his mistakes, as if not forgiving himself for them means he won’t make them again. He pushes others away and walls himself in with his hurt, treating it as a lesson to be learned rather than a wound to mend. It lies just beneath the surface and drives him to lash out when it grows too painful to hold, like on the landing platform, and over time it sinks into him, a weight he carries that he never speaks of or shows even as it changes him.

But…

It’s not that Gwen thinks he doesn’t have the right to his misery or grief, especially after losing someone so dear as Minfili. The events of the Antitower are barely behind them. Of course he’s still hurting and struggling with all of it. 

It’s how he’s handling it–or rather, _not_ handling it, and what it’s doing to him that she’s worried about. He’s _hurting_. He’s insisting on struggling alone, on holding everything in and carrying it with him, like he did after being freed from Lahabrea, and refusing to allow it to rest.

It’s too soon to really begin healing, maybe, but not so much that she can’t remind him that he isn’t alone.

Gwen stops in front of him, just out of arm’s reach. Her limbs are heavy, her head is throbbing and her stomach is shifting unpleasantly, but she does her best to keep her discomfort to herself. She settles her weight on her feet and regards him with a concerned and placidly questioning look. _What was that back there?_

They stand in silence, simply looking at one another and waiting. 

Thancred’s expression loses a smidgen of its harshness, though otherwise remains flat. Gwen loosely folds her arms against the chill, chewing the inside of her lip and worrying the sleeves of her coat between her fingers. She can wait for as long as she needs to.

Thancred shifts against the wall and sharply turns his head, putting the black wrap of cloth towards her. A dismissal, most likely. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want sympathy and, more than that, he doesn’t want her there. It stings, even as she corrects herself that he likely wants to be left alone to brood and doesn’t want _anyone_ around _._

Blue and purple are creeping out from beneath the edge of the cloth. The evidence of Emmanellain’s punch.

Gwen shifts her weight, numb fingers prickling as they slowly warm, her teeth sharp against the inside of her cheek. Then she takes one slow, somewhat cautious step forward.

Thancred tenses but doesn’t move, clinging to the hope she’ll go away if he ignores her long enough.

She takes another step and comes to a stop, now well within arm’s reach. She cautiously lifts a hand towards his face.

The motion makes him twitch and he jerks his head back around. She pulls her hand back in time to avoid colliding with his bruised cheek.

His expression is guarded as he glowers at her, a hint of incredulity and impatience tugging at his mouth while his eye is sharp. There’s a feeling tense expectation hanging about him that has a definite, bristling edge to it. He’s braced for a reprimand or a lecture, and is plenty ready to retaliate and start an argument. In fact, he almost looks like he’s hoping for an excuse to do just that.

Gwen gives him nothing of the sort, regarding him with a calm, weary look. She tentatively moves her hand towards his bruised cheek again, carefully studying his reaction.

He allows it, watching her like a hawk.

She stops short of touching his bandana, fingertips hovering just beside his cheek. She focuses on the back of her hand and scrounges up the last onzes of her energy for just one more small conjury spell. 

Thancred’s jaw shifts beneath her hand, his shoulders tightening and lifting like he’s getting his hackles up.

A somewhat tenuous whisper of soothing magic ripples out of her fingers and flows across his skin. The effort leaves her feeling a bit like she stood up too quickly, but she sets her jaw and keeps at it. The fringe of blue and black begins to gradually soften and melt away, shrinking back beneath the edge of his bandana. 

After a few slow, drawn out seconds his jaw flexes and he lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds distinctly like resignation. A bit of tension bleeds out of his posture and his shoulders begin to slowly sink back down. 

Thancred’s expression gradually smooths out, angry sparks fading and antagonistic edge dulling. Eventually it settles into the dour, brooding look she’s more accustomed to.

His jaw tenses up, relaxes just enough to shift, then tenses again. She imagines the sound of his teeth grinding.

He turns his head ever so slightly, just enough that his cheek barely connects with the pads of her fingers. He takes a few careful breaths and closes his eye, brow not quite furrowed. There’s an air of resigned expectation to his silence and the passing seconds, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Gwen doesn’t say a word, maintaining their slight connection and not pushing for more. He’s free to pull away, or to lean in. He’s free to talk, or not. 

At length his eye opens again, and he looks a great deal calmer and more composed. “…I may have overreacted.” His voice is quiet but unapologetic, as flat as his mouth. “But it needed to be done. He was becoming hysterical.” 

Gwen tilts her head a little, acquiescing the point. Thancred’s reaction wasn’t appropriate, no, and it was worryingly unlike him, but it was… understandable. Emmanellain is the one who threw the first punch, in all fairness, and he’d been doing a spectacular job of hitting their sore spots before that. She doesn’t blame the young nobleman for his frustration or whatever else he’s feeling, but that doesn’t mean she’s willing to listen to him rant whilst trying to heal his manservant.

Thancred takes another long breath, gaze drifting slowly over the stones around them. Eventually the silence urges him to speak again, “I understand the desire to look for reasons. For excuses. To convince yourself you had no choice. But the past is the past, and there is naught to be gained from reliving your mistakes.” 

His tone has a heavy undercurrent of repetition to it, as though he was reciting words he was tired of hearing. Yet the words make his frown turn pensive, if a little wrinkled with bitterness, in a way that makes her think he’s yet working to fully process that statement himself. 

Gwen tilts her head the other way, giving him a meaningful look. _Are you telling_ me _this? Or yourself?_

“I know this,” Thancred insists immediately. “I _know this_.” His expression tightens, almost slipping into a grimace, and his eye drops back to the ground, “But he…” 

He he huffs a sharp, frustrated breath and shifts moodily against the wall. He makes a point to keep his head still, maintaining their tentative connection.

She wonders how much striking Emmanellain made him realize the extent to which everything is affecting him.

Baby steps. Healing takes time. Understanding and overcoming one’s frustrations with themselves is a long road, and acknowledging them in the first place is the first step. He’s taken a step in the right direction. Hopefully.

Gwen can senses his cheek isn’t quite healed, but reluctantly admits she’s too spent to finish the job. She still has to fly to Ishgard and deliver the report to Aymeric, after all. And with her luck she’ll likely have more to endure after that, too, poison be damned.

She lets the spell peter out with a weary sigh, letting her hand linger for a few more seconds before dropping it back to her side. 

Thancred takes a long moment to look her over again, bluntly studying her face and the way she’s holding herself. “You look hellish.”

Gwen’s lips twitch with a hint of a smile. No one is around, they’re alone and in private for the moment, so she reaches out to brush the tips of her fingers along his knuckles. 

He watches, not quite impassively.

As her hand withdraws his turns, slowly as if it’s half-frozen. He curls his fingers just enough for the tips of hers to catch on his. 

It’s surprising how steadying such a small thing can be. 

Less than a breath later he lets hers drop. He shoulders himself off the wall and straightens up with a bit of muttering, brushing off his clothes. “Get your bird and let us away. We’ve important matters to attend to in Ishgard, and have kept the Lord Commander waiting entirely too long already. The lordling can arrange his return on his own time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oy vey @_@ this FFXIVWrite is really kicking my butt.
> 
> This is the first, and only, idea that sprung to mind when I saw the prompt. This part was so intense, and the conference just felt like the latest thing in the long list of “everything is going wrong fuuuuuu” @_@ I need to write more about this particular time in Post-HVW


	13. Free Day - Specific

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set hours after Clamor

Tataru stares, expression worryingly straight. “…You didn’t say _dead_ antelopes.”

Gwen fidgets. She… hadn’t specifically said that, no. But she’d thought the implication was obvious enough. She did say ‘whole’ after all, not _live_ , and those are two very different things.

What is she supposed to do with live antelopes, anyway? Duskfeather would enjoy hunting them, but he’s injured and can’t –or at least _shouldn’t_ – hunt. Besides, he can only eat so much.

Gwen doesn’t say that, already plenty uncomfortable. “Uh, I, ah– I mean, I had sort of… assumed…” She coughs, tugging nervously at her hair. “I’m sorry, I should have been more specific.”

Tataru purses her lips and folds her arms. “Hm.” Then she grins, rather too deviously, “Good news, this whole affair just got a great deal cheaper.”

That does sound like good news, particularly knowing Tataru. Still, Gwen is left more unnerved and intimidated than relieved when the receptionist turns on her heel and marches off to amend her request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized what I’d written and was like “Hm…that’s not actually that specific, is it?”


	14. Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Part  
>  1\. verb - (of two things) move away from each other.  
> 2\. noun - a piece or segment of something such as an object, activity, or period of time, which combined with other pieces makes up the whole.  
> \- some but not all of something.  
> 3\. adverb - to some extent; partly (often used to contrast different parts of something)_

Light seeps in around the curtains, too weak to chase away the shadows but bright enough to pull Thancred from his dreams. He blinks lazily, a vague sense of recollection poking its way through his head as he shakes off the dreamy haze. 

He remembers what day it is first, and why that matters a beat later. 

Gwen is going back to the Source today.

His lazy contentment is swiftly replaced by renewed disappointment and a grumpy frown. He draws Gwen against him and presses his face into her hair, heaving a heavy sigh against the back of her neck. She hums and snuggles closer, relaxing into him as she drifts back into full, peaceful slumber.

It puts a smile on his face at the same time as it inspires a pang of longing in his chest. He realizes he’s already looking forward to her return to the First.

He scoffs at himself, amused. He’s missing her already? She hasn’t even left yet, for Twelve’s sake.

No, but she will soon. Thancred hasn’t been looking forward to her departure in the first place, and now that the day is upon them that vague displeasure has solidified into something not unlike disappointment.

It can’t be helped, of course. She’s The Warrior of Light and Darkness. There are matters on the Source that require her attention, her intervention, her assistance, and there’s plenty of news that would be best shared in person. She’ll come back to the First as soon as she’s able, and she’ll stay for as long as she can.

He went five years without her, and compared to that a week or two should be easy. Practically nothing.

Instead, it feels very much like someone is telling him to give up food and water.

He went _five years_ without her, after all. And even once she’d arrived on the First, trying to save Norvrandt had taken priority over aught else, including a proper reunion and sorting themselves out again. Now that they’ve relearned one another, now that they’ve eased their aches and mended their hurts, now that they’ve fit themselves so comfortably together again, he’s more than a little reluctant to let her go, even for a few weeks.

The twinge of apprehension about whether or not she truly can travel back and forth between the Source and the First as freely as the Exarch claims isn’t helping. He has no reason to doubt the Exarch’s assertion, but at the same time he’s very aware of the fact that she hasn’t tried to return to the Source yet, let alone come back to the First after. There’s a sliver of worry lodged in the back of his mind that she might not be able to do one or the other.

Thancred presses his forehead to the slope of her shoulder and splays his hands over her stomach and waist, soaking up the contact and the feeling of her skin under his hands. He’s going to _miss_ her. 

Gwen stirs, mumbles, then buries her face in her pillow. “Time izzit?”

“Early,” Thancred replies, curling around her and letting his hands wander. 

She giggles softly and lazily presses back into him, bringing them flush together. She reaches back to bury one hand in his air, the other brushing along his forearm as his own hands continue to feel out the shape of her. 

_Gods_ he’s going to miss her…

A hint of tension suddenly stiffens her back. A moment later she lets out a dismal sigh and sags in his arm.

Ah. She’s remembered what day it is.

Thancred shouldn’t find so much satisfaction in being reminded that she isn’t terribly excited to leave him, but he can’t help it. It’s comforting, in a way, to know she dislikes being apart just as much as he does. That she’ll miss him, too, just as he’ll miss her.

Gwen’s fingers shift through his hair and then curl, nails scraping lightly along his scalp. He shivers pleasantly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on-end. 

“Today…” she trails off.

“Today,” he agrees. They chuckle, a bit ruefully.

They still have a few bells, and he knows how he’d prefer to spend them, if she’s amenable. He presses his lips to the hollow beneath her ear, letting his nails drag lightly across her skin as one hand wanders over her hips and down her thigh and the other drifts up, trailing over her ribs. Her breath hitches when he strokes the underside of her breast with his thumb, “But not yet.”

She shivers delightfully at the timber of his voice and arches into his hands. “Not yet,” she agrees breathily, turning her head and tugging him into a slow, searing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I did…but also kinda didn’t… get the prompt in there XD I meant to end it with Gwen leaving in the Ocular (y’know, the parting part) but this felt like a good place to end, and I wasn’t having luck with the Ocular bit anyway.
> 
> SOMFT <3 and a little steamy ;3


	15. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ache -noun_  
>  a continuous or prolonged dull pain in a part of one’s body
> 
> Set pre-Calamity/pre-ARR

Gwen didn’t ask for the axe, and almost didn’t even want it. She’d been given it when a merchant who’d posted a bill for a few hides and herbs had come up short on payment, promising it was worth what he owed and more. Instead of selling it, she’d decided to keep it.

The Botanist’s Guild was often called on to gather wood and branches in addition to herbs, reagents and everything else, but Gwen had never tried it herself due to not having an axe nor the money for one– or rather, not having the money for a _decent_ axe that would last for more than a swing or two. 

The merchant’s axe was precisely that, though the blade had been dull and the handle needed a new wrap of cloth.

Once she’d handled both of those matters, she’d gone straight to the guild and taken a request from the Carpenter’s Guild for as many oak branches as she could bring them.

When she set out into the Central Shroud, she knew her arms would ache the next day. Her muscles would be sore and spent, and her hands and fingers would be stiff and weak from the work.

That isn’t what happens, though.

When Gwen wakes the next morning, she can barely move. Every ilm of her _hurts_ , her arms, shoulders, the entire length of her back worst of all. Her hands creak and groan when she flexes her fingers, stiff and trembling, pale blisters dotting the bases of her fingers despite the protection of her gloves. Her whole body screams when she forces herself up and out of bed, overworked muscles trembling with weakness and giving out at the slightest provocation

Gwen groans, staggering over to her slanted doorframe and thumping her forehead against it over and over again. _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_ She should have eased into it a little at a time, not thrown herself in headfirst. This is just what she deserves for overexerting herself and chopping wood until she barely had the strength to haul it to the Carpenter’s Guild. 

What’s she supposed to do now? She has to let herself heal, but she can’t afford to sit around for however many days that is going to take. And in the meantime everything is going to be a struggle, particularly anything that requires her hands and arms.

Well, she can start off by trying to ease the pain. Then she can go from there. 

_Conjury… Need to learn conjury…_

She ducks out of her room and fumbles open the cabinet beneath the wash basin, scrounging through the salves and remedies that are already made and pondering what poultices she could craft with the reagents she already has. 

It’s not a lot. Her supplies have been running low for the past few weeks, and now it’s coming to bite her. She should have been paying closer attention and made more efforts to replenish them earlier, before she really needed them.

Gwen worries her lip between her teeth, enduring the ache in her arm and shoulder to lift a hand and pinch the bridge of her nose.

She doesn’t have many options, and whatever she does make won’t be terribly potent– either because of the reagents themselves, or the time it would take to brew. If her options are spend the day in pain and perhaps get something done, or spend the day minding a simmering tonic for twelve hours, she’s better off being in pain.

The idea pokes at her: There’s the money from the Carpenter’s Guild she just got? She could buy–

No. That money is for getting her boots repaired, oil and a new whetstone for her lance and scythe, and tar so she can patch the walls and roof. If there’s anything left after that –which is unlikely– her best option would be to save it, just in case. 

Mumbling to herself, Gwen settles on using the last of her frankincense and lavender salve on her arms and shoulders, and making a bitter brew of white willow bark and ginger. The remedies won’t really _fix_ anything, and the ‘tea’ will definitely be bitter, but they’ll soothe her inflamed muscles and take the edge off the throbbing pain that sharpens and spikes whenever she makes motions vaguely similar to swinging an axe. 

She glowers at the axe leaning against the wall by the front door, blaming it for her current state. 

Next time, she’ll pace herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the prompt is _too good_ and you have a million+ ideas for it, then can’t decide on any of them lmao
> 
> Pre-Calamity Gwen! And pre-Duskfeather Gwen, too. She had to haul all those branches herself.  
> Requests for logs and lumber were kinda rough when she was by herself.


	16. Lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lucubration - noun  
>  study; meditation  
> a piece of writing, typically a pedantic or overelaborate one_

Despite all the slices Gwen distributed on the First, there’s still half an Archon loaf waiting for them when she brings her friends home to the Source. 

One evening, as another day of rehabilitation, healing magic and restorative tinctures comes to a close, Gwen lets her curiosity get the best of her. 

With the others’ less-than-ringing endorsements of the stuff echoing in her ears, she pragmatically cuts off a bite-sized corner instead of subjecting herself to a full slice. She begins to question her decision the moment she discovers that cutting the ‘bread’ –because everyone says it with a certain teasing lilt when referencing the Archon Loaf– feels more like cutting a block of cheese. Somewhat fitting, given how dense and thick it is, and how much it resembles overmixed cake.

It smelled passably like bread when it had come out of the oven, and had even nearly smelled _good,_ but now it’s more… she isn’t even sure what, hints of a dozen different things confusing her nose. At the very least, it no longer smells like _bread_. 

She hesitates before eating it, almost starting to reconsider. Then she frowns, picking at one edge and feeling a bit like a child trying to avoid eating part of their dinner. A piece of bread has no right to be so daunting, particularly one that looks so very ordinary. 

After all the unpleasant, unpalatable things she’s eaten, surely a scholar-crafted piece of bread can’t be _that_ bad? 

Urianger had said he actually liked the loaf, though he’d also admitted, _“'Twas an Archon whom devoted many a year to the study of sustenance that conceived the infamous Sharlayan staple. They sought to craft a meal of utmost nutrition and ease of creation for Sharlayan’s scholars, and the Archon Loaf was the fruit of their labors. Alas, lucubration alone doth not a culinarian make. To wit, thou shalt find many are of the mind that such achievement of scholarly culinary ingenuity leaveth much to be desired.”_

Experience is just as important as knowledge, particularly when it comes to cooking. And food does tend to turn out dubious when taste and texture are left by the wayside in favor solely focusing on nutrition.

Gwen pops the piece in her mouth before she can debate it any further.

Her expression shrivels into a perplexed cringe at the taste and texture and it takes a moment before she starts chewing. 

Fish. It tastes like fish and bitter vegetables and nothing like bread. The flavors don’t meld or blend together at all, instead tasting more like a handful of individual ingredients than a cohesive dish. Despite all that it’s somehow almost bland, all of the displeasing flavors coming across flat and dull.

 _Salt_ , she thinks, nose wrinkling. _Needs a lot more salt. And a lot less fish._ It needs a hell of a lot more than that, too, if one truly wanted to try and improve the flavor, but taking care of those two issues would be a good place to start.

G’raha hadn’t been exaggerating about the ‘feats of mastication required to consume it’ he’d mentioned when she’d given him his slice. It’s tough like overcooked meat, and chewing requires genuine effort. Even then, it doesn’t feel like it’s doing a whole lot of good.

It’s a bit baffling to think that people not only ate this willingly, but practically subsisted on it. She could see it being described as an ‘acquired taste’, which she has always taken to mean the food in question is rather unappealing.

Her jaw is growing tired when she finally manages to choke down the bite of ‘bread.’ The taste of fish, vegetables and rye lingers in her mouth, and she hastily makes her way to the bar for something to wash it away.

Truth be told, the Archon Loaf isn’t the worst thing she’s ever eaten. That might say more about her than the Loaf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What eldritch abomination of a word generator is generating these prompts lmao
> 
> Like everyone else, I thought it was ‘lubrication’ at first glance lmao. NOPE.
> 
> I was halfway through a different piece then realized I, 1) had no idea where to go with it, and, 2) had kinda misunderstood the word. So I yeet’d it into a WIP and wrote this XDD  
> I’ve been struggling on the last few prompts. Here’s hoping the next one is easier!


	17. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fade – verb_  
>  Gradually grow faint and disappear
> 
> Steamy, but not NSFW~

They aren’t out of reach at Gwen’s apartment, but it’s about as close as they can –and are willing– to get. Her apartment feels a great deal more private and secluded than either of their rooms at the Stones, despite the other residents in the surrounding rooms. It’s a small luxury to be able to spend bells comfortably idle, relaxing and talking without postponed responsibilities weighing on their consciences.

Gwen builds a small fire in the hearth to keep the apartment comfortably balmy and Thancred dims the lights to a soft glow, saying something about ambiance and a relaxing atmosphere. They share a bottle of wine and the food they’d bought on the walk over to the Sultana’s Breath and spend the evening talking about anything and everything that isn’t primals, Garleans or anything else to do with their work. Standing at the counter and eating, not even bothering with plates or glasses, transitions to lazing together on the couch and watching the fire, passing the bottle back and forth and letting the conversation ebb and flow as they pleased.

The world fades away piece by piece, pushed out to the edge of her thoughts until she all but forgets about it. Then she has room to breathe, to let her hair down, to slouch and drag her feet. She revels in the simple, easy contentment of spending bells doing nothing of any import, talking about meaningless things, joking and laughing, and curling together on her couch. 

Watching Thancred do the same inspires no small amount of satisfaction and only makes the idle bells that much more pleasing. She watches his posture gradually ease and the subtle changes as his focus gradually shifts until he’s wholly _there_ , mind and body both settling into the moment, into the peaceful evening and easy conversation, instead of roving far afield, preoccupied and restless.

She studies the way the firelight and shadow play over his features as he takes a long swig from the bottle, half-wondering how much of the languid warmth seeping through her is her own and how much is the wine. Her eyes wander along the bend of his arm to his shoulder, over his choker and sage brand to the line of his jaw until her lazy path is interrupted by his black bandana. 

Gwen reaches out and trails her fingers over the path her eyes had taken, fingertips gradually transitioning to the whole of her hand along the way. He’s wearing a pleased, faintly amused grin as he tilts his head slightly away, welcoming her hand to trail up his neck. She feels the shiver that he tries to suppress when her fingers trail along his choker, grazing across the edge of the ticklish spots he works so hard to hide and protect.

He tenses very slightly and shoots her a warning look. She's free to do as she pleases, but retribution will be swift and merciless. Ticklefights always are.

She grins, coyly tracing her fingers along the edge of the cloth before moving up to his sage brand. Another, different sort of shiver ripples through him as she traces the dark lines, idly wondering what went into applying and affixing such a mark and what it felt like to receive one.

She relaxes further, wandering hand resuming the trail her eyes had picked out. His stubble scratches lightly at the pads of her fingers as they trail along the line of his jaw, short and neat like he prefers to keep it. When she finally reaches his bandana she tilts her head inquiringly and gives it a little tug. 

He pulls it off, not even bothering to untie it, then shuffles his fingers back through his hair to get it all settled in place again. Though he still keeps his pale eye covered, he’s no longer so bothered by it as he used to be. She’s even seen him around the Stones without his bandana a time or two.

She begins to forget about her apartment just as she forgot about the rest of the world, her loose, slightly hazy focus narrowing to just the couch, the two of them and the way the shadows, dim lanterns and flickering firelight play on his face and make him look particularly rakish.

Gwen slides her fingers into his hair, pushing it back from his face and savoring the texture between her fingers. Her hand drifts aside, fingers trailing behind his ear and around the corner of his jaw, and she watches the way the shadows on his face move and change as his hair falls stubbornly back into place. 

His lips curl with a lazy, charming smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

She grins back, heart squirming pleasantly.

He idly strokes her arm with the backs of his fingers as she caresses his face, eyes falling half-closed as the pads of her fingers smooth along his cheek, his brow, down the bridge of his nose. He kisses her fingertips as they drift by his mouth, sending pleasant little tingles along her arm.

Her hand moves down to his neck as his trails up to her shoulder, savoring the simple, slow connection and exploration. He turns his hand over, presses just firmly enough to dimple her skin with his fingertips, and draws his fingers down the length of her arm in one slow, smooth motion. A warm little shiver ripples across her skin that makes her cheeks warm and her heart flutter.

Thancred curls one of his fingers to catch hers, his lazy smile spreading into a positively lascivious smirk that has anticipation curling up her back. He watches her from beneath his lashes as he lifts her hand and turns his head so his breath splashes over inside of her wrist. “Touchy tonight,” he rumbles, not minding in the least.

Gwen’s hum of reply shivers apart when he places a feather-light kiss on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse spikes beneath his lips, heat unfurling beneath her skin that has her mouth feeling dry. 

He looks so damnably, alluringly smug as trails his fingertips ever-so-lightly over the back of her hand and presses another, firmer kiss to her fluttering pulse. Then another, a little further along her arm, and another, and another. 

Time stretches, seconds expanding into something longer, everything fading and falling out of her thoughts until she can’t think of anything but him, the touch of his lips and the desire sparking in her veins. She even forgets, for much too long, that her own hands are free, held in place by nothing but his thorough distraction.

She leans towards him as he shifts closer, and all at once her clothes are stifling and _in the way_ but she cares far more about sating her need to touch him than solving that particular problem.

She drops her hovering hand to his shoulder and presses the other to his waist, dragging them slowly over his chest as his mouth drifts over her shoulder and his fingertips wander over her back. His arm curls around her like he means to draw her in, but instead remains hovering, loosely caging, and his touch remains ever so light against her back, conjuring ripples of little goosebumps.

Her hands slip eagerly beneath the hem of his shirt to splay against his stomach and feel the heat of his skin, and she melts at the low, pleased sound he makes.

Gwen cants her head to the side as he noses along her collarbone. His breath whispers across her throat and her skin tingles in anticipation of the same light kisses he’d trailed up her arm. Then his teeth nip at her earlobe, a sharp little pinch that sends sparks tickling down her back. She whines in complaint and surprise, and he chuckles, unapologetic.

He splays his hand against her back, touch – _finally_ – gratifyingly firm and burning through the layers of her clothes. He leans into her and murmurs, “Lean back, dove. I have you.”

She shudders at the timber of his voice, mind going staticy at the heat of his breath, the drag of his lips against her ear and the rasp of stubble against her jaw. She pushes his shirt up higher as she wraps her arms around him, clinging to keep him close and keep her balance as she leans back and trusts him with her weight.

He tips her back and guides her down, leaning with her like they’re doing a dip in a dance until her back meets the cushions in a gentle collision. He follows after her, pressing her into the cushions with the weight of his body against hers, not an ilm of space between them. 

His lips hover over hers for a tantalizing second, quirking with a sultry yet soft smile that matches the smoldering heat in his eyes and hers. Then he steals her breath with a slow, searing kiss that makes her mind blank out entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definite case of “I had an idea and I really want to write it, quick shove the prompt word in” lol but thankfully fade is a nice easy one to work with.
> 
> I’ve been really wanting to write some thing slower and softer and more intimate for a little bit, and yaaaay I got to! XD


	18. Where the Heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I skipped Panglossian and took a breather before this prompt.

Gwen drums her fingers on the counter, waiting for the coffee to be ready, and casts her gaze around the room. It’s not _her_ room in the Pendants, specifically, but she’s here often enough it may as well be.

It’s a familiar, comfortable space, now bedecked with her own personal touches like plants and books on botany and alchemy. Since the trials and tribulations of the light, the place has become a second home.

Sometimes she idly wonders why that is.

Because she’s here often enough? Because she’s made the place her own? 

Maybe, but likely not. ‘Home’ isn’t a place, at least not entirely. When her parents had reminisced about Rabanastre and Dalmasca, they’d more sounded like they’d been mourning people, rather than places. That place hadn’t felt like home to her, despite all of her parents’ fond words. Perhaps that had something to do with the sorry state the capital had been left in. Or maybe not.

Gwen pours the coffee into three mugs. She adds cream and sugar to one until it turns a pale, sweet tan. She adds a dash of cream to the other, just enough to soften the deep brown. And the last she leaves black. She nudges the lightest one to a prominent place at the edge of the counter, blatantly within view of the yet-closed door across the room, then picks up the other two and pads over to the other bedroom.

Does the Pendants feel like home because of the familiar faces of the other residents, and all the people of the Crystarium? Somewhat, because home is as much the people as it is the place itself. But it’s not familiarity with her neighbors and other residents that make the Pendants home now when it hadn’t been before.

Home is the people she loves. They’re where her heart is.

And, for the time being, her heart is groggily sitting up in bed and knuckling drowsiness out of his eyes.

“Morning, dove,” Thancred mumbles, accepting his mug of black coffee.

Gwen hums, hovering expectantly. He rolls his eyes fondly and scoots over to make room for her to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. They lean comfortably against one another, savoring the coffee, the comfortable silence and the simple, quiet time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> That break really helped, hot damn. I wrote this in like 30 minutes and I’m actually really pleased with it.
> 
> I kinda wish I’d been able to make it longer/bigger –aka: had more time by starting on it sooner, but also had a bigger idea in general– but I think this is pretty good as it is :B


	19. Free Day - Preference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free day submission, because an idea struck!

Gwen knocks on the guestroom door and hears a faint, “Come in.”

Poking her head in, she finds the room empty and and the bathroom door open, leaking light and the sound of flowing water. “Ah, are you–?”

“Decent? Yes,” Thancred calls with a touch of a laugh. 

Gwen checks the hall –no one is around– before stepping in and closing the bedroom door behind her. In the bathroom, Thancred is leaning over the washbasin and examining his face in the mirror. He’s cut his beard down to short stubble, the discarded trimmings scattered in and around the basin. He turns his head this way and that, running his free hand over the results of his handiwork in an effort to find any missed sections or straggling hairs. 

“Need something?” he asks conversationally. 

She shakes her head, “Just wanted to see how you were doing.” _To remind myself you’re still here and I didn’t dream everything_ , she doesn’t add, shifting her weight on her feet and tugging at the ends of her sleeves.

Satisfied with his work, he sets aside the scissors and bends to splash water on his face, cleaning out the washbasin in the process. He flashes her half a smile as he blots his face dry. “Seeing how I’m adjusting to all this finery?”

She smiles and shrugs. It had certainly taken her some time to get used to, and she was still a little uneasy about handling the finer dishware. The thought had crossed her mind that transitioning straight from the wilds of Dravania to the austerity of Ishgard and the opulence of Fortemps Manor might be a bit… jarring. He’d been mindful of his posture and a bit more refined with his speech when they arrived, but hadn’t seemed uncomfortable. Now, in the privacy of his borrowed bathroom, he looks perfectly at ease.

Thancred regards his reflection thoughtfully, running an assessing hand over the remnants of his beard again and testing the feel of it.

The more she studies his face, the more Gwen finds she actually rather likes the stubble on him, though it could do with a bit more neatening up. It does something to his features–makes him look a bit older and more mature but no less attractive, more ruggedly handsome instead of boyishly charming. It makes him look purposefully rough around the edges in a rakish and daring sort of way, but not so much that he looks unkempt. It pairs well with his longer hair and braid, too, which he seemingly hasn’t yet altered or tried to remove.

When he dips his fingers in a jar of lather and bends over the basin to start rubbing it over his face she perks up a little, “Shaving?”

“Tis long past due,” he replies, checking the mirror to make sure he’s covering every ilm of stubble. “The Vath weren’t particularly helpful when it came to grooming, given the lack of hair, and I wasn’t quite so desperate as to resort to using my blades.”

While the image of him trying to shave with that Allagan blade in the middle of the wilderness is amusing, the news that he intends to rid himself of his stubble inspires a twinge of disappointment. It’s a good look on him –in her opinion, whatever that’s worth. But she’s not going to tell someone else what to do with their appearance, so she restrains her reaction to a mild, “Oh.”

Thancred pauses, processing the sound. Then he glances at her reflection in the mirror. She’s still not used to his mismatched eyes, but she makes a point not to focus overmuch on the newly pale one. 

“‘Oh’?” he parrots curiously, arching a brow. 

Gwen hesitates, then shrugs.

He straightens up, twirling the razor in his fingers. “Mayhap you have an objection?”

She debates what to say before shaking her head. It’s his face, he should do what he wants with it.

“An opinion, then?”

She shifts her weight back on her heels, twisting the end of her braid around her fingers. She really should get her hair cut some time; it’s so long even her braid is getting to be impractical. “I think,” she says slowly, glancing down as bashful heat started to gather in her cheeks, “it looks nice trimmed. You wear it well.”

He tilts head thoughtfully, giving his lather-covered face a long, slow look. His eyes flick to her reflection again, “Is that so?”

Gwen shrugs noncommittally, face growing a little hotter. 

Thancred frowns thoughtfully, twirling the razor a few more times. Much too carelessly, in her opinion. “A compromise, then,” he says rather cryptically. Then he leans in and carefully drags the blade over his cheek, taking offending stubble and lather with it. He doesn’t go all the way down to his jawline, instead just removing the hairs climbing up over his cheekbones.

He continues, making only short strokes with the razor and thoroughly washing it in between, apparently not minding an audience. She notices his eyes flitting towards her reflection every now and then just before he takes another pass with the razor. Judging her reaction? Getting her opinion? He glances so quickly she scarcely catches it, let alone has the chance to give any actual input.

When he finally ducks to wash his face again his stubble has been restrained to his chin, mouth and the line of his jaw, the rest of his face and neck clean-shaven and smooth. He neatens up a few uneven edges before closing the razor and blotting his face dry one final time. He takes an appraising look at himself and checks over his work, mouth curving with a satisfied smile as he runs his hand over his face.

“I think that will suffice.” Thancred turns to her, a hint of expectation in the look on his face. 

Gwen grins, half wanting to reach out and touch the short stubble, partially to feel the contrast between it and his skin and partially to remind herself, once again, that he truly was there with her. She keeps her hands to herself, he’s too far away to reach. “It will, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D 
> 
> Thancred kept the facial hair Post-HVW because Gwen likes it~  
> Post-SHB, however, she hasn’t been able to convince him to start growing it again lol
> 
> Here’s hoping I didn’t just burn all my writing-spoons for the day and then wind up with no ideas for the prompt lmao OTL
> 
> Edited and beta’d by the wonderful @rhymingteelookatme *throws confetti*


	20. Foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Foible - noun_  
>  a minor flaw or shortcoming in character or behavior

Thancred knows he’s in for a tedious day when the faint tickle in his throat blooms into an uncomfortable itch and a headache begins to brew between his temples. He covers his mouth with his hand and clears his throat as quietly as he can, hoping it’s nothing. **  
**

Of course it’s not.

Within the bell Gwen notices something is off about him, even though he makes a point to not give even the smallest sign discomfort around her. It doesn’t help that his condition has decided to rapidly start worsening. Her brows tug together and start to tilt at a worried angle, and her green eyes grow sharper, scrutinizing every little detail.

He’s not the least bit surprised when she follows him to his room, her journal in her hands and a flimsy excuse about work and spending time together on her tongue. They’ve passed many a day reading and working together, after all, and she has often hidden in his room when the pressure of others’ company has grown uncomfortable. 

He doesn’t have the energy to fight with her, and stringing together sentences is terribly hard when the pounding in his head is breaking them apart, so he reluctantly accepts her company. She doesn’t attempt to force conversation or an admittance of his poor health out of him, but he can feel her eyes on him while he works –or tries to appear like he is, at any rate– and he’s painfully aware of every grunt, groan and rough sound he makes.

When clearing his throat turns into a minor coughing fit, Gwen abandons her flimsy pretense of reading reports and writing in her journal. She appears at his side in moments, brows knit, mouth bending in a frown and eyes filled with concern.

“Just a frog in my throat,” Thancred dismisses, purposefully bending over the pages of code he’s been pretending to decipher. He can barely read the text for all the pounding behind his eyes and the fogginess in his head, but he doggedly tries anyway.

“You should lie down,” Gwen murmurs, lowering her voice and speaking softly enough that it doesn’t further irritate his head. 

Thancred waves her away, jotting down a bit of nonsense to further the illusion that he’s working. 

A hand rests on his arm, tentative yet heavy, while the other lifts his hair and braid off the back of his neck, letting a draft of fresh air touch his skin. The cool of her hands and the air feel wonderful.

“You worry overmuch,” he mumbles, his stubbornness starting to waver under the combined might of discomfort and the look she’s giving him. “It’s just a cough. It’ll pass.”

“Work in bed, then,” she says, squeezing his arm and rubbing soothing circles on the nape of his neck. “I’ll make you some tea for your throat.”

“You don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“I want to.” Her hand leaves his arm and her knuckles ghost across his cheek. Too late he realizes she’s checking his temperature and turns his head away. 

She steps away, but he never hears the door open. Instead there’s the sound of shifting cloth and flopping blankets, and when he looks back she’s turned the sheets down and rearranged the pillows so he can recline against them. Before he can protest she scurries around and finds a book with a hard, smooth cover and sets it on the nightstand–for him to write on, most likely. 

He heaves a sigh. Godsdamnit, he’s weak. 

  
By late afternoon Thancred is well and truly sick and doubly miserable, burning from the inside out with a slow, stifling heat that casts a haze over his senses. His skull is full to bursting, and his chest is thick with scratching cotton that won’t budge no matter how much he coughs. At the very least he’s not nauseous, which he supposes might be worth something.

Gwen’s fretting and hovering is wearing at him, but he can’t quite bring himself to be outwardly surly about her sincere concern–though on the inside he’s grumping and complaining plenty. In the end, though, keeping his low mood and irritation to himself is for the best. Growling and snapping won’t send her away, nor ease the worry woven so plainly through all this coddling and mothering. It will just make her continued presence uncomfortable for the both of them, not to mention make him feel guilty for snapping at a dear friend for having the nerve to want to help him.

Besides, he can admit it’s a relief to drop the act of good health and not force his mind or body to work when neither wants to.

Thancred grumbles under his breath, massaging his pounding temples with clumsy fingers. Too much thinking…

Gwen mumbles something in a soothing tone, nudging his hands aside. The constricting pressure around his head lessens and then vanishes as his bandana falls away, and then a cold, damp towel presses to his forehead. He shudders at the wonderful chill that sinks into his skin and dulls the feeling of nails being pounded into the backs of his eyes.

He makes a grateful sound, tilting his head back and relaxing against the pillows. The movement upsets all the loose, sticky pieces clogging up his chest, and his next breath crackles audibly in his throat. He coughs quietly to try and ease both, but to no avail. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Gwen tense up.

He coughs again, harder, and then he suddenly can’t stop. He struggles not to bow forward, head pounding with every spasm of his chest and resonating down his neck and into his shoulders. 

Gwen helps him stay upright and holds a handkerchief near his mouth. He takes it and muffles his coughs into it, attempting to keep his misery and whatever it is he’s hacked up to himself. He hopes he’s not going to get her sick, too. 

The moment he starts to calm she guides him back against his supporting pillows, replaces the towel on his forehead, and presses a mug of warm tea into his hands. It’s some medicinal blend that’s bitter in a way that honey and sugar can’t wholly mask. 

Thancred croaks his thanks somewhat reluctantly, irritation slinking around the back of his mind and poking at him. _Gods_ but he hates nothing so much as feeling like a useless burden. He takes a small swig, letting the bitter warmth wash away the raggedness hanging on the back of his tongue and soothe his aching throat.

Gwen gives him a brief half-smile, hovering like she thinks he’s apt to start coughing again. Once a full minute passes without issue she finally relaxes, and he realizes just how tense she’d been. Odd. 

Come to think of it, she’s had a similarly stricken look every time he’s coughed, and she’s much more tightly wound than she usually is when one of her friends takes ill. 

Why might that be? He could ask, but he knows she won’t answer him, at least not fully honestly. Besides, he needs _something_ to do besides sit around and be miserable, so why not try and puzzle the answer out himself?

The thought that it might be because _he’s_ the one who’s fallen ill begins to come together and he pushes it away before it can take shape, though he can’t fully explain why. 

He makes another vaguely pained grumble and shifts his head. She reaches out to adjust the towel and hums a sympathetic sound. Her fingers trail over his face and across his shoulders, pressing here and there to try and ease tense muscles.

A few minutes later he makes a –partially genuine– comment about the heat and she fetches a lighter, looser shirt for him. When he isn’t yet freed from all his confounded buckles and straps by the time she returns, she helps with that, too.

He feigns clearing his throat, only to genuinely cough a few times when the act inspires an unpleasant tickle in his chest. 

Her head jerks up immediately, apprehension writ plain on her face. Her hands flutter indecisively before one reaches for the tea and the other retrieves the discarded handkerchief. He detects a hint of unsteady tension, like an over-tightened bowstring, while she checks his pulse and murmurs at him. She watches him sip the bitter tea and hovers for a few more drawn-out seconds before slowly, carefully lowering herself back to the edge of her chair.

So it’s coughing, specifically, that puts her on edge. Curious.

Thancred sinks back into his pillows and ponders, and Gwen gradually relaxes as minutes pass without incident. He can’t recall all the instances of others taking ill in the past, but he’s reasonably certain their ailments hadn’t involved much coughing, at least not to the same degree as this. 

He thinks to try and ask about it. She likely won’t tell him the truth, but he might still be able to glean some insight as to why she’s so distressed by his coughing, or why she feels the need to tie herself up in such knots when a friend falls ill. .

There are a few different ways he could parse the inquiry. He knows they’ll all be met with resistance and silence, but mayhap one of them will eventually yield an answer. Concern works better than bluntness when trying to get her to open up, as is the case with many people. Concern is soft and seeps into cracks and around walls, rather than butting up against them. It’s gentle enough to tempt, to coax her to reach out rather than close herself off.

“Not that it’s out of character for you to fret when a friend takes ill,” he says without preamble.

She looks up from all the things she’s crammed onto his nightstand, a pout on her lips.

“But I can’t help thinking this is above and beyond, even for you.” The words make his throat hurt, and the more he talks the more his voice turns to gravel. “Is aught amiss?”

Her brows knit and bend, a wash of melancholy dulling her eyes. She avoids his gaze and adjusts his blankets.

“Though it may not sound like it, I assure you I’m not truly at risk of coughing up a lung.”

The corners of her mouth tighten and dip, and her shoulders tense. 

He wraps a hand loosely around her wrist and she stills. He softens his tone as much as he’s able, trying to reassure, “I’m fine, Gwen. It’ll pass.”

She glances at his face, then back down at their hands. “I know.”

“Then why do you look like I’m about to breathe my last whenever I have a tickle in my throat?”

Her brows furrow and her expression shifts, trying to close and flatten out into a look that brooks no room for more questions. It almost works. Her eyes, however, are far away and quiet, a heavy shadow rolling across them like nightfall. 

Ah…? Mayhap this is a more delicate topic than he thought. He probably should have assumed as much, and might have, if his head was clearer.

Thancred slides his hand into hers and squeezes gently.

Gwen studies their hands for several breaths. Then she rests her other hand over his, slotting her fingers between his knuckles. 

Something in his chest rattles wrong and sends a coughing fit kicking up his throat. Godsdamnit. 

She keeps him from doubling over on himself, patting his back gently and mumbling soothing things until he collapses back against his pillows, lightheaded and breathless. His head is full of thunderstorms and his throat is burned out and raw, the air like sandpaper as he gulps it down.

Cold dampness dabs at his temples, his throat, his chest, sending little shocks of chill through him that clear away the dizziness and snuff the waves of heat rolling under his skin. The cloth vanishes, water splashes and trickles elsewhere, and then it settles on his forehead again. Murmured words and ghosting fingertips conjure ripples of healing magic that do more for his aching muscles than his head. For all it’s usefulness, the list of things healing magic can’t help is surprisingly, aggravatingly long.

Drained as he is, Thancred still has the energy to take the mug when Gwen lifts it to his mouth. He’s not _that_ bad off. The overworked muscles in his stomach and chest ache as he sits a little straighter to drink.

“Drink it slowly,” she advises, hands hovering like she thinks he’ll drop it.

He does. His throat continues to tickle and scratch even after the tea is gone and the rest of him has settled, inspiring a few small coughs here but, thankfully, not another fit.

Weary and with his thoughts lagging, he allows himself a few minutes to simply sit and be miserable. He sinks into the pillows and lets her move his hair around, dry his face, fix his blankets and whatever else will quell her apprehension and satisfy her need to fret.

He doesn’t deserve to be fussed over like this, he knows. He hasn’t earned this time and attention, especially not from her. The Warrior of Light has better things to do than coddle him and put up with his neediness.

She doesn’t agree in the slightest and, in truth, a small part of him is grateful for it. The same part that selfishly revels in the gentle care and affection that have nothing to do with getting him back in working condition and everything to do with her genuine concern for his comfort and wellbeing.

A hand touches his cheek, tugging at his muddled awareness.

“Thancred?” Gwen’s voice is hazy.

He peels his eyes open and blinks sluggishly until they focus. His head is full of quicksand, and breaths sound rough in his ears and feel worse in his throat.

“You dozed off,” she says, still speaking quietly. “I made some more tea.”

Thancred grunts and pushes himself up, and Gwen helps him rearrange and fluff the pillows so he can sit more upright. The hot tea feels like heaven on his parched throat, and the fact that it’s a different, less bitter blend only makes it better. 

She perches on the edge of her seat, looking satisfied, and picks up her journal. Then she pauses, expression shifting slowly. She sets her journal in her lap and purses her lips contemplatively, that dullness gradually returning to her eyes as a thoughtful little wrinkle forms between her brows.

He cocks his head, curious. He’s doing relatively well, he hasn’t coughed or even cleared his throat, so what’s this look for?

“I, ah…” Gwen pauses. She sinks back in her seat, leaning heavily against the backrest. “I was thinking, while you were asleep. I… Heh, I do tend to get, ah, a little wound up when people get sick, don’t I?” The corners of her mouth tighten and lift into an awkward, guilty smile. Her tone is careful, testing the topic and his reaction.

“I’d argue more than ‘a little,’” he drawls. It makes his throat itch, so he takes another swallow of tea.

She inclines her head, acquiescing the point. “I spent a little time thinking about it,” she stops. “And I realized it’s…”

She sighs, expression tightening with mild frustration. She opens her journal and leafs through it until she finds where she left off last, one page full of writing while the other is mostly empty. She reads over the full page, fingers moving haphazardly over the words as her eyes dart back and forth.

His brain isn’t functional enough to decipher her chocobo-scratch upside down, but tries anyway. No luck.

Gwen curls her fingers over the top of the page and tips it shut on her hand, like an actress holding a spot for reference while they work to memorize their lines. Her eyes drift slowly over the room, looking around but not _at_ anything in particular. Eventually her gaze comes to rest in the vicinity of his elbow.

“I,” her voice is soft, “had a brother.”

Hearing her say it aloud is like a cold shock of water, even though he’d already been aware of that sad truth. She’s written about him before, though only on occasion, and she was so sparing with details and accounts of him it might even be fairer to say she’d _mentioned_ him.

In want of a suitable reply Thancred gives her his full attention, turning to better face her. 

She opens her mouth then pauses, looking vaguely pensive. Her gaze shifts around indecisively, that thoughtful wrinkle between her brows coming back. Trying to determine what to say next, and how much she needs to share to properly explain whatever thought is forming on her tongue.

Thancred asks, even though he’s half-convinced any sort of disruption will make her stop and withdraw, as if this piece of her past is a deer he can startle away, “What was his name?”

Her eyes flit to his for a moment, and she looks touched that he would want to know. 

“Aifread,” she says gently, her tone more fond familiarity than reverence. The smile that tugs at her lips is tinged with reminiscence, and he wonders how long it’s been since she last said his name aloud. 

_Aifread_. Thancred commits it to memory and mumbles it to himself for good measure, feeling the shape and weight of it on his tongue. 

“And he– he…. Was younger than me. By four summers or so,” she says slowly. “So I had to take care of him.” One corner of her mouth tugs down. “Us, rather. Both of us. And…” there’s a slight pause, less than a breath, and her eyes flash, growing dark and hard, “…and father.”

The change is so sudden and sharp he’s almost taken aback. He’s seen her angry before, but this is more than mere anger. This is something deeper, something loathsome with teeth in it.

Then it vanishes, like a puff of wind, and the hard emeralds of her eyes are replaced with soft, dull moss. “It wasn’t easy but…” She shrugs, expression drooping as she reaches up to pet one of the silver streaks in her hair. 

“When I was nine summers old, almost ten, I…” She glances down at her journal but doesn’t open it. “I took ill. There’s no name for what it was, then or now. But the healers think it was the same blight that struck the lalafel who made the mill.”

Thancred lifts a hand and gestures for her to stop, a quiet, heavy hole opening in his chest. She told him enough when she said she’d _had_ a brother, in truth. He doesn’t have all the details, but he doesn’t need them. He knows enough.

“Started as a tickle in my chest,” Gwen says anyway, purposefully looking away from his hand. Apparently she’s determined to finish now that she’s started. “Then it got worse… a few days later I couldn’t get out of bed. Then Aifread started coughing, too. Then father.”

Thancred leans over and rests a hand on the one tangled in her hair. “Gwen…” 

She shakes off the gray strands and weaves her fingers through his instead, looking faintly relieved.

Her brows bend and she-half winces at an unpleasant memory. Then a certain little wrinkle appears on her forehead. “It’s, ah, it gets– hazy. After that,” she says stiltedly.

A lie. And a rather obvious one, at that. He squeezes her hand and says nothing.

“Next thing I remember, I…” Her voice wavers slightly and she lowers her head. “I… woke up in the Adders’ medical ward. And… “

She takes a slow, steadying breath. Her voice trembles anyway. “And I… I was alone.”

Words have always abandoned him when it mattered, and now is no different. Thancred squeezes her hand and pulls, stopping just short of hauling her out of her seat and into his arms.

She jerks her head up, green eyes glassy and confused. She’s just on the verge of tears, but still keeping herself together, if only barely. When he pulls again she lets him drag her into his arms, stiff for a moment before melting into his embrace. She hooks her hands over his shoulders and clings to him, burying her face in the crook of neck. Her breaths shudder slowly against his throat, only a few tears smearing against his neck as she fights to hold the rest in.

He wishes she wouldn’t. She doesn’t need to.

He tries to tell her so. Instead another sodding cough claws its way out of his chest, and all his half-formed words of comfort get hacked up along with one of his lungs.

For what it’s worth, Gwen isn’t upset by the sudden derailment. If anything, she’s grateful for the distraction. 

She slips away from him, producing a clean handkerchief from nowhere and rubbing soothing circles on his back until he finally slumps, wheezing, against his pillows. Somewhere in the midst of it all she rubs her hands over her face and manages to steady her breaths out. 

He all but collapses against his pillows, dizzy and wheezing. It almost hurts to breathe, though he’s not sure what’s worse: his aching chest or his raw throat. She dabs his forehead with the cold towel, pours a fresh mug of tea, and fixes his blankets while he catches his breath, mumbling quiet, soothing nonsense and sympathy once she’s sure her voice won’t waver.

Rather than trying to fumble through expressing condolences, he settles for promising himself to be more patient with her fretting in the future and not complain about it… within reason.

“So, well…” she fumbles slowly, still measuring her breaths as she shifts her weight on her feet and tugs at her shirt. “All that to say I, ah… I only just realized that I, heh, have never really taken the time to understand where this,” she tries for a smile, “’fretting’ came from, myself. And… I have a bit of reflecting to do.”

He makes a vaguely affirming sound, unable to properly read the look on her face or the way she’s holding herself through the renewed pounding in his skull that’s hazing over his senses. Awkwardness, discomfort, maybe a bit of guilt, but he’s not entirely sure. Those, at least, are understandable. That was a rather heavy bit of history to tell someone, particularly when they weren’t quite expecting it. It’s not the sort of thing she would share with many people –or anyone– which would only give it that much more weight when she finally decided to do so.

Gwen leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to his brow, then tips her forehead against his. “Thank you.”

The affection is welcome, but it doesn’t stop Thancred from confusedly croaking that he didn’t do anything but sit.

She straightens up and smooths his hair back from his face, a measure of the worry and concern she’s been carrying since she first caught him coughing replaced with something more pensive. “You helped,” she pauses, trying to find the words she wants, “clear my head a little.” 

“By sitting here?” he rasps between sips of tea.

She considers that, picking up her journal from the floor and flattening out a bent page. At length she says, “By asking. And listening.”

Asking…? What, asking why she was fretting so much? Has no one asked before?

She gives him a slight smile. “I’ll get you something to eat.” Her expression firms slightly and she points a warning finger at him. “Stay in bed.”

He grouses good-naturedly at her as she leaves, then frowns at the closed door. 

He doesn’t know how long he’d dozed off for, but apparently it was long enough for her to take a thoughtful look at the root of her anxieties surrounding illness. Enough time to steady herself out a little and recognize her motives and behaviors for what they are, not just the good intentions she veils them in, and the toll all that worrying takes on her. Apparently she has never spared it much thought herself, though it’s hard to say whether or not that had been a conscious decision. Either way, it had surely been far easier to simply accept it as habit and dig no further.

It’s quite the step for her to take, both in confronting herself about her brother’s death and opening up to him about it. Despite the discomfort of such heavy news, he has no small amount of satisfaction, even pride, in knowing she trusts him enough to share the more painful and tender parts of her past. He imagines the hole in his chest is not going to fully go away any time soon, but it’s worth it. _Aifread_. 

When Gwen comes back with soup, Thancred isn’t not much better physically, but his spirits are higher. She offers, with only a hint of reluctance and a dash of awkwardness, to get out of his hair and give him time to himself.

He asks her to stay. 

They don’t talk about Aifread again, or anything else about her. But that shadow of worry from before isn’t hanging so heavily behind her eyes anymore, cracked open and broken apart into pieces she can try to work with, rather than something she simply has to carry. She still worries, of course, but she isn’t so distraught and tense, even when he starts trying to hack up his other lung.

It makes sense, he supposes. Secrets are heavy things, as are the consequences of carrying them for so long. They’re much easier to bear when shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HNNNGGGG TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE AND ENDINGS ARE HARD AND THEY SUCK AGH
> 
> But overall I’m pretty happy with it!!
> 
> *is debating removing that last line hmmmmmmm….*
> 
> TY TY @evangeline-cross for the advice and the beta read :B


	21. Argy-Bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Argy-bargy - phrase / British slang_  
>  A fight

Gwen adjusts to life in Limsa Lominsa just as easily as she had in Ul’dah, though with much less to fill her time. She settles into a familiar routine of leves and odd jobs while waiting for the Admiral’s reply to the Sultana, exploring the city and surrounding La Noscea in the process. 

Something that stumps her for a bit, however, is the dialect. Or rather, the dialect that a few certain Lominsans seem to have. The Lominsan accent itself is easy to adjust to, but there are a few folk she’s overheard in passing or at the Drowning Wench that almost sounded as though they were speaking a different language– or at least part of one, as what she’d heard sounded more like peppering foreign words into an otherwise understandable sentence.

“Ah. Sounds like ye heard a few o’ them Dutiful Sisters,” Baderon says when she asks about it. “Tend to be a quiet lot, but every group has one or two what can’t lower their voice to save their bloody lives.”

Gwen tilts her head curiously, surprised he’s so certain when she hasn’t had the chance to tell him more than a few of the strange words she’d overheard. She hasn’t even described the people, or what she thought they were talking about.

“Surprised I’m so sure?” he asks with a laugh. “I know this city and the folk in it like the back ‘o me hand, lass, and them Dutiful Sisters are the only folk around what toss around jargon like ‘cove’ an’ ‘argy-bargy’ an’ ‘fambles.’”

She hums thoughtfully. Right, that would make it rather easy to identify them, wouldn’t it? The name ‘Dutiful Sisters’ does ring a bell, now that she’s thinking on it. She’s caught a few mentions of, ‘The Dutiful Sisters of the Edelweiss,’ but nothing particularly informative. “Who are they?”

“A curious lot,” Baderon says with another laugh. “But a mighty decent one, as Lominsans go. Aside from that? Ye’ll have to ask ‘em yerself. Actually.” He makes a considering sound and gives her an appraising look, folding his arms and drumming his fingers on the crook of his elbow. “Actually, speakin’ o that…”

He abruptly ducks down below the counter, out of sight. She hears him muttering under his breath as he rummages around, wood scraping, metal clinking and paper rustling. When he straightens up again, just as abruptly, he has a plainly wrapped box in his hands. “It just so happens this here is meant for the Dutiful Sisters. Soddin’ postmoogle has his pom in a knot and dropped it here by mistake. What say ye go and deliver it for me? Then ye can meet the Sisters for yerself.”

Gwen tilts her head thoughtfully, considering. It’s plain enough these ‘Dutiful Sisters’ aren’t all they seem, but Baderon proved he isn’t the sort to purposefully steer people wrong or put them in danger. Cautiously prudent as she is about what the Sisters themselves do, her curiosity is certainly piqued, and delivering a package would certainly give her a reason to seek them out and learn a bit more about them. Not to mention she has time to spare. The Admiral had been pretty plain that her response would take a week or two to compose, and Gwen has naught to do in the meantime but wait and work. And try to track down that ‘associate’ Thancred had mentioned, though he’d –purposefully, she’s absolutely certain of it– given her very little information that might actually help her do that. 

There are worse ways to waste a few bells than delivering a package and getting answers for her questions. Who knows, perhaps she’ll stumble upon Thancred’s mysterious associate during her delivery. She’ll just need to keep her wits about her and her ears open… ha, so what else is new?

Gwen meets Baderon’s expectant look with a smile and a nod.

“Perfect. Two birds with one stone,” he says with a grin, pushing the package across the counter. “Right, then. Ye’ll need to make yer way to the Lower Decks and head for the Fistherman’s Guild. From there, set yer eyes south across the jetty and ye’ll see a big red door. Somewhere around you’ll find the doorman, one-eyed fella called Lonwoerd. Hand over that there box and tell him I sent ye, and he’ll set ye straight.”

The little box is heavy for its size, something inside shifting around as she lifts it from the counter. She tucks it securely under her arm, considers her course, then heads for the Lift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not thieves’ cant, but it sounds like it could be to me XDD
> 
> The Rogue’s Guild is… interesting for Gwen XD They already know who she is, as they caught word of her deeds in Ul’dah and that she was coming to see the Admiral and hanging out. They’re impressed by her skills and general do-good, go-getter scrappiness, but much less so with her ineptitude with stealth. She learns a bit of knifework and daggers and does a few jobs with/for them, but she doesn’t stick around for long. She’s leaves on good terms and stays friendly with the Dutiful Sisters of the Edelweiss after the fact, but she’s not really a part of the Rogue’s Guild.
> 
> Like @autumnslance, I picture Gwen basically doing the intro storylines for every city before joining the Scions. She starts in Ul’dah and completes that intro storyline first, then travels to the other city states as the Sultana’s emissary and does their intro storylines and lowbie dungeons, getting acquainted with the other Scions along the way. Limsa Lominsa and Sastasha are second, then Gridania and Tam Tara Deepcoft happen last. Then she returns to Ul’dah (and meets the Levellieur twins & Brendt on the carriage ride into the city) does the Copperbell Mines, and then finally gets recruited by Thancred to join the Scions. 
> 
> I haven’t decided how long all of this takes (probably a couple of months?? Half a year??), or if I want to cut out any extraneous quests or anything, but that’s basically the gist of it.


	22. Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shuffle – verb  
>  walk by dragging one’s feet along or without lifting them fully from the ground.  
> rearrange ~~(a deck of cards)~~ by sliding the cards over each other quickly_

Gwen is so engrossed in the papers and books laid out in front of her that she barely notices when Thancred takes the seat across from her. By the time she makes a vague mumble to acknowledge him he’s already found his place in his book again and added a few lines to his notes.

She doesn’t ask why he suddenly decided to move from his seat at the other table a few yalms away, the one that had been serving him fine for the last bell. He wonders if she even realizes he was in the library before she was. Perhaps not, as she’s been rather preoccupied since the moment she arrived. Whatever the case, his prepared excuse about the seat across from her having better light goes unused. 

Thancred glances at her as he browses through the chapter, searching for anything of relevance. Her back is rigidly straight despite having both elbows being planted on the table, one hand twisted up in her hair. Her expression is neutral but tight, mouth slightly wrinkled and brows starting to tip down in the middle, eyes trained on the page in her other hand.

He goes back to reading, devouring pages in seconds the way years studying in Sharlayan trained him to. The little handwritten notes some previous reader crammed in the margins require a bit of squinting and head-tilting and slow him down. Regrettably, they prove to not be particularly helpful, or interesting. Honestly, if someone is determined to squeeze their own addition into a book they could at least make it something useful. 

He begins jotting down a paraphrased version of the most useful passages and notices a subtle, steady tremor in the table. When he flips to the clean side of his paper his pen slips from his fingers and topples to the floor. Muttering under his breath he pushes his chair back and bends to pick it up. 

Gwen is sitting at the very edge of her seat, one leg folded under her while the other is jittering, poised on the ball of her foot at just the right angle to make her heel bounce restlessly. Her elbows being planted on the tabletop are passing the tremor along to him rather than holding her steady.

Thancred plucks up his pen and rights himself in his seat, finding the minor disruption didn’t affect her in the slightest. He sighs under his breath, and scoots his chair closer so he can resume writing. 

Just as he’d thought: she’s gone and gotten herself worked up and anxious about something. She’s likely been tying herself up in knots all day and then something on the page she’s staring at tipped her over the edge. He has no idea what’s buzzing between her ears, but it’s likely related –to one degree or another– to the myriad uncertainties that have been so constantly plaguing the realm of late. She’s not likely to wind up in a particularly good mood if she’s left to overthink and stew in ‘what if’s for too long, but she’s also not likely to share what's on her mind. She could do with a distraction, and he'll have to settle for gleaning insight elsewhere.

He shifts in his seat and casually extends one of his legs under the table as he resumes his writing. She doesn’t notice the incursion into her space, sparing him the lame excuse of stretching. He can sense the rapid, ceaseless bouncing of her foot beside his the same way he can feel the reverberations of it in the table. 

He flexes his foot and twists his heel in one short, sharp movement. 

The inside of his boot collides soundly with the outside of hers.

Gwen twitches. Her leg abruptly still 

She’s rigidly still for a moment, eyelids fluttering confusedly as if she’s coming out of a daze. Realization comes together in her eyes and spreads outwards, shifting her expression as her gaze darts from the report in her hands to the tabletop and then finally over to him. 

He feigns obliviousness and finishes penning the last line of his notes, certain he’s gotten just about everything he can out of this particular tome. 

Her mouth flattens and she exhales through her nose, shoulders dropping a few degrees. She plants her hovering heel on the floor and shifts around to resettle herself in her seat, loosening her posture along the way until she’s no longer stiff as a board. She sets the troublesome report aside, hands hovering for a moment before she gathers up all of the loose aduyses and papers around her, unearthing her journal in the process. She shuffles them indecisively in her hands and taps them on the table until the edges are squared, then sets them aside. The half filled pages of her journal get a brief once-over before she tips that shut, too. 

Then she sits, worrying her lip between her teeth and combing her fingers through her hair to work out the tangles all her anxious twisting and tugging had wrought.

“Time for a break?” Thancred asks casually, thumbing back through a couple of chapters to be sure he hasn’t missed anything.

Gwen’s lips purse slightly, almost a half-pout, as she considers everything gathered before her. Her brows are starting to tug together, indecision and something akin to discomfort shifting behind her eyes, when she says, “Maybe.”

He taps her foot again. “If you’re headed to the kitchens, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.”

She narrows her eyes at him and scoffs, retaliating with a firmer tap. Then she glances back at the papers she set aside, the books she hasn’t touched, and the journal she just closed. Her brows are close enough together that a wrinkle is starting to form between them before she closes her eyes, breathes, and works to smooth her expression out. 

After a moment of consideration she pushes herself to her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You be quiet dictionary, words mean whatever is convenient for me. lol
> 
> This one took a lot longer than I expected, but I’m pretty happy with how it came out :D
> 
> Dem little gestures tho. Thancred does that foot-tap a lot to get Gwen out of her head.  
>  ~~oopsie she left her journal unattended. i’m sure it’s fine.~~


	23. Beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Beam - verb  
>  transmit (a radio signal or broadcast) in a specified direction.  
> (of a light or light source) shine brightly.  
> smile radiantly._

Gwen hasn’t quite managed to work the mildly annoyed look off her face by the time she shoulders her way into Thancred’s apartment, arms full of groceries. Thancred is sitting at the kitchen table, disassembling his gunblade and laying the parts neatly on the towel spread out before him, cleaning and checking each one for damage along the way.

“Took you a bit,” he points out conversationally, staring intently at the frame as he scrubs it with a fine brush. “Have trouble finding everything?”

Gwen considers how to answer as she sets the bags on the counter and starts putting everything away. It wasn’t the merchants who’d been the problem, she’d acquired all the requested items and foodstuffs easily, it was… someone else. She has half a mind to make up some excuse and keep the truth, and the uncomfortable prickling in her chest, to herself and her journal, at least until she can get it sorted it out. 

But… Well. 

She has the distinct sense that trying to work this particular matter out herself will only get her so far, especially in her current mood. Between still being a bit irritated and only having one side of the story –if it could even be called that– she’ll probably just wind up making herself more frustrated. Besides, they’re supposed to be working on the ‘open and honest’ thing, aren’t they?

“I was, ah, held up,” she admits, stooping to put away some dry goods.

“Oh?”

“Eidith was asking about you.” Gwen glances over her shoulder at him, looking for signs of recognition. 

His expression draws slightly inwards in a mix of concentration and thought. After a moment he pauses his work to properly devote his focus towards conjuring up some image or association to match the name. A few seconds he gives up and resumes his cleaning, curious but unconcerned, “Who?”

His confusion inspires a little pleased flicker in her thoughts. “Eidith, a h– _ume_ woman who works in the Musica Universalis.”

Thancred shoots her a questioning glance, then returns his focus to his task. “Hm. Can’t say the name is ringing any bells.”

“You saved a merchant friend of hers a while back,” she says, returning to her chore.

“I’ve saved a lot of people,” he replies with no particular inflection. “What did she want to know?”

Sourness curls tighty in her chest and on her tongue, making her frown. It feels a lot like irritation, but it’s not quite the same. “How you were doing, mostly. What you’ve been up to, and if you were going to come by the markets any time soon.” She can’t keep her mouth from twisting, her voice tightening with it, “And she asked a few rather direct questions about your, ah, _availability_.”

Thancred sighs like she’s just given him a particularly banal chore to complete rather than informed him of an admirer. One corner of his mouth curls with a wry smile and he chuckles, “She asked _you_ , of all people? Excuse me whilst I revel in the irony.”

It figures he’d find it amusing and not think much more of it. Gwen would too, if it wasn’t quite so… uniquely, complexly irritating. 

She stops putting away the groceries for a moment, trying to get a better hold of the prickly feeling that rears its ugly head whenever Eidith swoons over Thancred, or pesters her with uncomfortably forward questions about his interests and availability, or suspiciously side-eyes any woman he has even the most basic interactions with as if they’re encroaching on her territory. Even _Ryne_ , for Twelve’s sake.

But not Gwen. She’s never given the impression that she considers Gwen to be ‘a threat’ in that way, nor expressed any concern about the fact Gwen and Thancred are friends. In fact, the latter is why Eidith pesters Gwen about him all the time. And that is… irritating in a way that kicks up a lot of grumbling, moody things inside her head.

It shouldn’t, she knows. That she and Thancred value their private lives being _private_ and keep their relationship a secret, and thus can’t set the record straight, is no great loss. Words are wind, after all. They and their friends know the truth, and that’s all that matters. Besides, if Eidith were to ever act on her infatuation and approach him, Gwen doesn’t have so much as a sliver of doubt that Thancred would turn her down.

There’s also the affront that sparks at the fact that Eidith seems to think Gwen isn’t someone she needs to worry about or… or whatever her reasoning is behind not giving Gwen the same sort of look she’s given every other woman that’s spent more than two seconds in Thancred’s vicinity. 

What, does she think he isn’t attracted to Gwen, or there’s no way he’d be interested in her? _Oh_ is she _wrong_ about that.

Gwen almost snorts to herself, conflicted about whether or not to enjoy the small burst of petty satisfaction.

But there’s more even beyond irritation and bruised pride, though. Something deeper that’s been growing slowly for a while, but has only just started to break the surface. She’s not sure how long it’s been there, as it was so quiet and unobtrusive she hadn’t paid it much thought before now, when she can’t help noticing.

Lately she’s had the occasional thought that it might be nice to have the _option,_ maybe, to be less secretive and not be so careful in public. A bit of flexibility, as opposed to their current, rather rigid rules. Of course they’d still be private about most things, they wouldn’t be all over each other out in the open or anything like that, Twelve forefend. Just having the option to lean on one another when if they needed to, or just when the feeling struck, instead of always having to push it down, hold off and _wait_ until they could hide away to so much as hold hands or hug. That wouldn’t be so bad, surely?

She’s coming to realize that sometimes their secrecy can be rather… draining. That maintaining their privacy and hiding her feelings from the wider world can be tiring on occasion, particularly when someone else is so open about their own. It makes an odd, uncomfortable dissonance in her head that’s difficult to ignore. 

Normally other people expressing an interest in Thancred doesn’t bother her. If anything, she only starts getting annoyed when said expressions of interest are getting on _his_ nerves. But sometimes, every now and then, it rubs her wrong. She still hasn’t been able to figure out why.

It’s… just complicated, is all. And irritating, like she’d said. Maybe now that she’s cleared her head a bit and taken more time to think about it, and gotten a bit of reassurance from Thancred both not knowing the woman and being utterly unaware of her infatuation, she’ll be able to make some headway writing about it. Hopefully that will be able to put the whole thing to rest.

Gwen begins to resume her chore but pauses when she senses eyes on her. She suddenly realizes how quiet it is. Not only has Thancred not said anything for a bit, it doesn’t sound like he’s working on his gunblade anymore.

She turns to check. He has indeed abandoned his task, instead staring at her with an odd look on his face. He doesn’t quite look puzzled, more like he’s not quite sure if he’s seeing things clearly.

Gwen cocks her head curiously.

He mirrors her, eyes narrowing slightly. A beat later his expression lifts with realization.

She tilts her head a little more, utterly lost. 

He smirks and settles back in his chair, looking positively _smug_.

She recognizes _that_ look, the look that says he knows something she doesn’t and he plans to nettle her with it. The look that says he’s figured out the solution to the riddle she’s been dropping hints for, even though she’s been doing nothing of the sort.

She frowns at him and folds her arms, regretting mentioning anything about Eidith at all.

He props an elbow on the table and leans his head on his fist, looking so shamelessly pleased with himself she almost wants to smack him. 

“ _Guinevere_ ,” he gasps, scandalized. 

Her face scrunches like she took a bite of something bitter.

“Are you _jealous_?”

She goes rigid, equally surprised and affronted. “What? No.”

His smirk begins edging into a puckish grin, amusement lighting up his eyes.

Gwen works to fix her posture into something less moody and defensive, heat gathering in her face. She turns her nose up and turns sharply on her heel, “I’m not jealous.”

“Is that right,” he wheedles.

“I am _not_ jealous,” she repeats firmly, delving into one of the grocery bags. “I’m just… I’m just a bit _irritated_.”

“Jealousy is an irritant, I’m told,” he says knowingly, chair scraping across the floor.

Gwen stiffens up again and presses her lips together, head full of abashed, staticky denial and exasperation.

Irritation is _similar_ to jealousy, she can grant him that –but won’t, at least not aloud, because of that infuriating smugness. But it’s only that: similar. 

“There’s nothing to be jealous of,” she replies matter-of-factly, pointedly starting on the last of the groceries. There really isn’t. Thancred doesn’t even _know_ Eidith, for crying out loud. He didn’t recognize her name, and only cared to inquire about her because Gwen had gone and brought her up. There’s no reason for Gwen to be so bothered by the woman’s infatuation, and this is just proving that. 

Which is good, isn’t it? That’s what she wanted. 

Except for the part where she’s starting to feel rather silly and embarrassed about getting irritated at all, and letting it hang around and bother her for so long. Doubly so because she knows she’s likely never hear the end of it now.

She senses a presence at her back a moment before Thancred plants his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her in. “Indeed not,” he drawls, “Yet here you are.”

She pouts at his hands and folds her arms again, shoulders hiking up self-consciously.

He chuckles fondly and bumps her side with his elbow, trying to coax her into turning around.

After a few more nudges she finally concedes, turning to face him and leaning back against the counter with a moody pout. 

He’s positively _beaming_ , which is… not the _worst_ thing to see, despite her embarrassment. Beneath all that smugness and teasing, mayhap he likes the idea of her getting a bit jealous over him.

He leans down a little, bringing himself to her eye level. His broad smile turns into a fond, thoroughly amused grin. “Worried she might whisk me away?” he teases. “That she’ll throw herself into my arms, profess her love, and I’ll have a sudden change of heart?”

Gwen can’t help laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea, shaking her head. _Please_ …

“No? Not the slightest bit concerned you’ll wake in the night to find I’ve escaped out the window and eloped with this woman I’ve never met?”

She rolls her eyes, smiling despite herself. “Hardly.”

He leans in to nudge her nose with his, “Good. Naught to worry about, then.”

She lowers her chin, eyes falling half-closed as she inspects the toes of her boots, fully aware she’s made a whole lot of something out of a bit of nothing. “I know.” She shifts her weight, toes at the grout, and sighs. “I… It’s silly, I know. To be bothered by…” she gestures vaguely with her crossed arms.

“Maybe,” he agrees mildly, brushing his nose placatingly against hers again. “But it’s hardly unreasonable.” He offers an unconcerned shrug and a guilty half-smile, “I’d be a liar if I tried to claim I’ve never gotten a bit jealous, myself.”

True, he’s never been particularly thrilled about all the people vying for her attention, romantically and otherwise. There are a few in particular who are –were?– sore spots for him in that regard. She can recall a few occasions when his amiable mood suddenly dropped into brooding, expression darkening into a scowl that lingered for bells after the fact.

Gwen hums and tilts her head forward to press their foreheads together, closing her eyes and savoring the simple connection. It’s a wonderful, reassuring feeling. “Sometimes I…” she pauses, second-guessing herself.

He hums a coaxing sound, tilting his head back just slightly then letting it drop forward to gently butt against hers.

She smiles a little wider, even as she wrinkles her nose. She unwinds her arms to curl her hands in his coat, worrying the fabric between her fingers. “Sometimes I… wish we weren’t quite so secretive,” she murmurs. “About us.”

He makes a considering sound, pondering the idea for a moment before leaning in to ghost his lips against hers, “What say we talk about it, then? Later, so I might give it a bit of thought first.”

Gwen hums an agreement, finding that sense of silliness shifting to something gentler and less sharp. The sort of thing she’ll look back on and laugh at herself about, rather than cringe and deny. Mayhap she would’ve reached the same resolution herself if she’d chosen to wait and speak about it all after the fact, but it would have taken longer and meant more time stewing in that irksome irritation. 

She doesn’t need to worry about holding everything in and resolving matters herself before informing others about them, or even having her thoughts in order before sharing them. 

There’s a familiar focus and heat beneath the look of satisfaction on his face, and the sight of it makes her heart flutter.

“In the meantime,” his voice melts into something low and promising, one hand pressing to the small of her back to draw her closer, “mayhap leaving a mark or two whilst I reaffirm my devotion would suffice?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwen gets a liiiiittle jelly sometimes. Not often, but every now and then.
> 
> Eidith is SO FUCKIN’ THIRSTY OMG
> 
> Overall I like how it came out, but it was waaaaay more difficult to write than I expected @_@ particularly the end bit. This is one I’ll likely come back and spruce up a bit after I get some spoons back. Is pretty good, though! :D


	24. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wish - verb_  
>  feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; want something that cannot or probably will not happen

“Do you ever wish,” Gwen starts, then stops. It’s late and fully dark in her room, but neither of them have done more than doze.

“Hm?” Thancred rolls on his side to face her, finding her hip with a searching hand.

She mumbles vaguely, reshuffling the question on her tongue a few times. “Do you ever wish… things had happened differently?”

He makes a thoughtful sound, tracing circles on the peak of her hipbone with his thumb. “Do you?”

Gwen makes a subvocal sound, shifting under his hand. She reaches out, fingers bumping into his chest and then traveling up, finally coming to rest on his face. At length she says, “I don’t think so.”

“Really?” After how much she’s been through, how much she’s suffered, it’s more than a little surprising she wouldn’t wish things had played out differently.

She shrugs, sliding her hand into his hair and slowly combing her fingers through it while she considers her answer. “I…” she pauses, “There are things I wish had gone differently. Or hadn’t happened at all. But if things had been different we might not be here, now. And,” she scoots closer and nestles against him, tucking her head under his, “and… I don’t know.”

Thancred curls his arms around her and squeezes, warmth swelling in his chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, fingers sliding through his hair again. “I’m keeping you up.”

“You apologize too much,” he replies simply. “But you should try to get some sleep all the same.”

Gwen shifts around and settles in with a hum of agreement.

He never answered the question, but sleep is more important than pondering hypotheticals that will never come to pass. What they have is better than fantasizing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is mobile formatting, anyway  
> (because I wrote and submitted it via mobile tumblr)


	25. When Pigs Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Pigs Fly - idiom  
>  used to say that one thinks that something will never happen_

Gwen arrives at the Wandering Stair, only slightly late, to find Thancred and Alisaie in the middle of an argument. The former is seated, arms folded and jaw set stubbornly, while the latter is on her feet on the other side of the table, hands on her hips, with Angelo hovering placidly by her side.

Cyella is looking on from the bar with a face that says the pair have been at this for a while. Gwen can’t quite tell if the look she shoots her is meant to ward her off, or ask her to put an end to their bickering.

“You said–” Alisaie starts, leveling an accusing finger across the table.

“When pigs fly,” Thancred interrupts.

Alisaie gestures aggressively at her porxie familiar, “And _what_ do you call _him_?”

“A _porxie_ ,” he says bluntly.

“Oh come off it,” the younger Levellieur exclaims exasperatedly. “They’re the same thing!”

“Clearly you’ve never seen a pig! They are _not_ the same thing.”

Gwen is on the cusp of deciding whether or not she ought to intervene and try to diffuse the mounting argument, but a small hand catches the crook of her elbow before she can step closer. “It’s not worth it,” Ryne says wearily. “I tried.”

Alphinaud looks as if he’s similarly out of patience for their friends’ argument. “Come, we should make ourselves scarce lest they try to get us involved.”


	26. Irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Irenic – adjective  
>  Favoring, conducive to, or operating toward peace, moderation, or conciliation_
> 
> Continued from “When Pigs Fly”

Gwen is curled on the couch, a mug of masala chai in her hands and a book Urianger recommended in her lap. Ryne is at the table, diligently filling out a worksheet about Norvrandt’s plants she was tasked to complete before her next lesson at the Horotium. 

The front door opens, then closes with a snap. Gwen glances up and watches Thancred shuck off his coat and not-quite-storm into the kitchen.

Clearly the argument about whether or not porxies counted as flying pigs hadn’t gone in his favor.

She and Ryne trade looks. 

“I heard that,” he warns, cabinet hinges squealing and glasses clinking.

Rather than point out they hadn’t made a sound, Ryne pretends she never stopped working and Gwen goes back to reading and sipping her chai.

She’s halfway through a description of a fantastical fairy city when her book is abruptly pulled out of her lap.

Gwen barely has time to make a sound of protest before Thancred has flopped down on his back and plopped his head where her book had just been. He sprawls purposefully, taking up the entire couch in a way that’s both comical and obviously petulant.

She pouts at him, but he pays her blatant disapproval no mind. He’s much too busy shifting around to get properly comfortable and glowering at the ceiling, brows furrowed and mouth bent sourly.

Yes, he definitely was _not_ the victor of that argument. 

Once he’s settled she gives him a few seconds to return her book. When he doesn’t, she makes an expectant sound and taps a finger on his chestplate. He hands it over, looking terribly inconvenienced by the request. Of course he’d saved her page. 

She balances the book on the arm of the couch, then passes her tea to one hand and curls the other in his hair, scratching light, soothing patterns on his scalp. “Everything alright?”

He grumbles vaguely in reply, eyelids drooping ever so slightly. “Porxies aren’t pigs.”

Gwen cocks her head curiously.

“Alisaie is insisting they are.”

She shouldn’t ask. She _should not_ ask. “Why?”

Ryne shoots her an uncertain look. _Be careful…_

“Because she’s decided that ‘when pigs fly’ is _not_ merely a turn of phrase, and porxies qualify as flying pigs,” Thancred grumbles, simultaneously explaining everything and nothing. 

_Why?_ perches on her tongue again. Were they arguing about the phrase itself, Alisaie choosing to take it literally while he didn’t? Or were they arguing about him refusing to do the thing he’d never intended to do, and it devolved from there? Maybe both?

“She argued about it for more than a bell. Apparently that’s a hill she’s ready to die on,” he goes on, conveniently forgetting that it takes two people to argue. He scoffs, “That’s a chunk of time I’ll never get back.”

Gwen hums a vaguely agreeable sound. 

“If you’re curious about the outcome, there isn’t one. I left.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve just got better things to do than spend all night debating the differences between pigs and porxies.” Thancred quickly adds, “I did _not_ concede, whatever she tries to claim.” 

She nods agreeably. While neither he nor Alisaie are going to be happy about the lack of a decisive victor, both of them walking away dissatisfied is probably the best outcome.

He lets out a quiet sigh and closes his eyes, satisfied and content to linger under her touch while he finishes cooling off.

Gwen turns back to her book, sipping her chai and steadily dragging her nails through his hair. Instead of reading, she finds herself idly considering the question: are porxies pigs?

Well, they… kind of are? Sort of. Ish. They’re certainly pig-like –porcine?– in most regards, except for the overly large wing-ears, the ability to fly, and the tiny matter of them being fae creatures created from animated clay. So it’s more they’re… based off of pigs, or maybe modeled after them, which isn’t the same thing as _being_ pigs. 

But on the other hand, it doesn’t feel like much of a stretch to say porxies are _fae_ pigs. Which would mean they _are_ pigs, after a fashion. She wonders what Ezel II would think of being called a pig rather than a porxie.

…Thancred is giving her a mistrustful, narrow-eyed look. For some reason she feels like she’s been caught red-handed, and she can’t help tensing up. 

“And what is your take on the matter?” he asks flatly.

“My,” Gwen blinks confusedly, “take?”

“Are porxies pigs?” he asks, his tone entirely too serious for such an inconsequential and frivolous question.

Aw hells. 

This isn’t fair. Gwen doesn’t even _care_. 

She sips her tea, stalling.

Ryne is hunched over her homework, looking like she’s torn between wishing she was somewhere else and wanting to hear Gwen try and talk her way out of this corner. If she agrees with Thancred, she’ll be in trouble with Alisaie; likewise, siding with Alisaie will lead to a sulky, irritable Thancred. Not forever, of course, no one stays mad at each other for _too_ long, but she’d rather just avoid that sort of mess altogether.

“I think,” Gwen says slowly, “they’re certainly pig- _like_.”

He folds his arms, unimpressed with her nonanswer. 

“They’re modeled after pigs, so they are intended to look, ah, porcine,” she continues, attempting an irenic tone. “But even so, they’re hardly the same. Pigs aren’t fey creatures, they don’t have any magical abilities, they can’t fly and none of them can talk. Plus, porxies are sculpted from clay and animated with magic, and pigs aren’t. Well. To the best of my knowledge.” She smiles, somewhat feebilly.

He doesn’t.

 _Yeah, alright, fine…_ “But, ah, well. So. They’re similar, and they’re certainly pig-like. But whether or not being pig-shaped or pig-like is enough to be a ‘pig’ is, ah, debatable. Porxies look like pig, and they even oink, but you could hardly eat one, unless you have a taste for clay, so…” She trails off and shrugs.

Thancred studies her face, frown lingering but gradually lessening in severity. Eventually he sighs. “Leave it to you to choose a balancing act instead of picking a side. I don’t know what I expected.”

Gwen sips her tea, tension evaporating as she twirls his hair around her fingers, “I find it helps keep me out of trouble.”

He snorts and grumbles under his breath, the shadow of irritation that has been hanging over his face slowly dissolving. He unfolds his arms and relaxes into the couch, mumbling, “Fair enough.”

She’s pushing her luck, but she asks anyway. “What is it you supposedly agreed to do ‘when pigs fly?’”

Given their current arrangement, it’s rather obvious when he abruptly begins looking everywhere but at her. He firmly says, “Nothing of any import.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwen has +5 in diplomacy. Dat middle ground lol. She generally tries to stay neutral in her friend group, and in most situations, with a few exceptions such as being strongly opposed to the world Ending and having a strong aversion to pranks, particularly mean-spirited and harmful ones.


	27. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Paternal – adjective  
>  of or appropriate to a father  
> showing a kindness and care associated with a father; fatherly  
> related through the father _

Thancred had thought that, given his status as an Archon–and senior Scion, no less–he wouldn’t be asked to handle the smaller, more mundane requests that came through the Stones. He had more important matters to take care of, and there were plenty of other, greener Scions who could deal with whatever small issues cropped up. A bit more experience under new recruits’ belts was always a good thing.

Except apparently not, as Koh Rabntah pulled him aside before he’d even set foot in Revenant’s Toll proper to ask him to investigate a ‘suspicious character’ that was loitering around the entrance to the Seventh Heaven. He hadn’t been able to come up with a satisfactory excuse to avoid the task before Koh had considered the matter settled and walked off. Sigh.

After most of a bell perched in an alcove above the chocobo stables, Thancred has decided the poor sod moping in the shadows off to the side of the bar-slash-headquarters is, in fact, not at all suspicious. He seems to be something of a vagrant and a loner, neither of which are particularly noteworthy or cause for concern. What’s more, he hasn’t bothered anyone, at least not directly, since Thancred started watching him. Rather, his blatantly morose demeanor is apparently prone to catching the attention of passersby, even though he hasn’t said so much as half a word to anyone and has done naught but stay out of the way and keep to himself. Seems some people just can’t catch a break.

For all his mundanity, though, there’s something about him that is rather… strange. Even by adventurer standards, which is really saying something. Strange enough that Thancred isn’t entirely sure what to make of him.

Something keeps catching in his thoughts like a pulled thread, tugging oddly at him every time he takes a long, hard look at the man’s face. He almost feels like he’s forgetting something. Thancred isn’t so cocky as to claim he can remember _every_ face he’s ever seen, and fifty-odd fulms is far enough for features to grow a touch murky (particularly with only one eye at his disposal), but he’s confident he’s never seen this stranger before.

And yet…

Much as Thancred was looking forward to trading in his patrol route –add that to the list of mundane requests he really thinks should be reserved for new recruits– for sitting on his arse sorting through intelligence reports, the persistent tugging in his thoughts convinces him to do a little more investigating.

It leads nowhere. 

The man is about as new as newcomers get, having arrived at Revenant’s Toll mere bells ago. The caravan he’d ridden in on had stopped just long enough to feed and water their chocobos before resuming their journey to Coerthas. They’re probably halfway to the Observatorium by now. 

Thancred supposes that the man could’ve just been left behind. It’s easy to lose track of time, and he wouldn’t be the first person who sulk and flounder when facing the consequences of their carelessness. Plausible enough. But, given the fact he’s distinctly underdressed for the Coerthan chill, it doesn’t seem terribly likely.

Left with few options, and still trying to decipher the odd feeling there’s some detail he should be able to pick up on but can’t, Thancred finally bites the bullet and decides to have a chat with the fellow. One he’s going to have to entirely compose and carry on himself, if his intuition is right.

Thancred affects the mien of an amicable adventurer before setting out across the Aetheryte plaza, assuming the outgoing, personable persona that had served him so well in Ul’dah before it had been lost in the Lifestream along with his magic. It feels odd, stiff and dusty like an old jacket that no longer fits right. Hopefully he doesn’t have to wear it long.

The stranger has taken up residence at one end of a stone bench, shoulders hunched and elbows leaned heavily on his knees, and Thancred takes better stock of him as he ambles over. He’s average height for a Midlander, and thin in a way that suggests moons of lean living and scraping by. His clothes are cheap but serviceable, well maintained and relatively whole despite their obvious age, and the only dirt on him is the dried mud on his boots. Most of his face is obscured by his curtain of stone-gray hair, and what little Thancred can see is gaunt and smattered with a few days’ worth of pale stubble. It’s difficult to place his age, but a dozen summers older than Thancred seems like a safe, if polite, guess. 

Thancred wonders if he might be a refugee yet in search of a place to settle, as opposed to a mere vagrant. He certainly has the look of it. Not to mention the distinct air of isolation about him, as if he’s sitting alone in the middle of nowhere, rather than at the outskirts of a busy plaza.

For want of a better greeting, Thancred offers a simple nod of acknowledgement and a friendly smile that feels a bit rusty. “Greetings.” 

The man doesn’t respond, not even lifting his head when Thancred comes to a stop in front of him.

“Pray forgive the intrusion, I don’t mean to bother,” Thancred continues anyway, all friendliness and polite concern. He openly gives the man an appraising once-over that he doesn’t see because he’s not looking, “Are you quite well?”

After too long a pause the man lifts his head slightly. ‘Twould seem he’s not deaf after all.

if he’s not a refugee, could he possibly be an adventurer? Probably not. “I couldn’t help noticing you look a bit out of sorts, if you’ll pardon my bluntness. Mayhap you’re in need of assistance?”

The man lifts his head a little more to better peer at Thancred. The lines etched in his impassive face speak as much of stress and worry as they do age. His dark eyes are dreary and dull but vaguely alert with a hint of interest. 

Something about his eyes draws Thancred’s attention, another thread catching and tugging. It doesn’t lead anywhere except a fresh nudge of the bothersome feeling that he should be noticing something he’s not.

“Ah, ‘twould seem I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Thancred,” he holds out a hand, “and what might I call you?”

The man hesitates, expression shifting with a bland imitation of surprise like that’s the last thing he expected to be asked. After a long pause he croaks, “Gawynn.” After another he reaches for Thancred’s hand.

Gawynn’s grip is loose, just shy of limp, and he’s quick to pull away. Not quick enough for Thancred to miss the curious array of calluses on his fingers and palm that suggest his hands are more accustomed to tools than weapons. From hammers, maybe? Perhaps he’s a smith?

They immediately lapse into silence again. Like he’d suspected, pulling conversation out of Gawynn is not unlike pulling teeth. “Now that we’re no longer strangers, hopefully I can be a bit more helpful,” he says good-naturedly. “I know Revenant’s Toll like the back of my hand, if you’re in need of guidance or information. For matters beyond that,” he rests his hands on the hilts of his blades, “rest assured, these blades aren’t merely for show.”

Gawynn considers the offer, face slowly tilting back towards the ground. Then he turns, gazing at the door to the Seventh Heaven with a look not unlike longing. Likely for a hot meal or a bottle of strong drink, if Thancred had to guess. He’d hardly be the first.

Or perhaps it’s less the Seventh Heaven, and more the Rising Stones? If that’s the case, Thancred wonders if he might be a messenger or courier. If so, whatever he’s meant to bring clearly isn’t –or had _better not be_ – urgent, otherwise he wouldn’t have been loitering out here for so long.

Gawynn takes a long, slow breath, seeming to muster his will. “The… The Warrior of Light,” his voice is quiet and faintly hoarse, as though he doesn’t have much occasion to use it. He twitches listless fingers to indicate the door he’s gazing at, “She frequents this place?”

Same as with faces, Thancred can’t recall every single voice he’s ever heard. Even so, he’s confident Gawynn’s is unfamiliar. Strangely, it doesn’t prod the back of Thancred’s mind the same way his appearance does.

“Lives here, actually. With the Scions of the Seventh Dawn,” Thancred says simply. It’s been public knowledge since they first moved to Mor Dhona, so he sees no reason to be cagey with his answer.

Gwen should be in the Stones at this very moment, actually. Unless she was called away while he was out on patrol and he hadn’t been informed for some reason.

Gawynn takes that in and slowly mulls it over. He doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with the information, or where the conversation should go next.

Thancred casually folds his arms and leans his weight on his back foot, offering a knowing smile. “Curious if the woman matches the myth, are you?” Gawynn wouldn’t be the first who made the trek out to Mor Dhona to investigate such things.

Gawynn thinks for a moment and takes another slow, pensive breath. He sits up a little straighter to better regard his new acquaintance, looking as though he’s having to muster no small amount of nerve in order to do so.

 _Green_ , Thancred realizes when the light catches right. Gawynn’s eyes are deep, dark green. A… familiar shade, even?

That nagging sense of familiarity twists into something shaped like recognition. 

But Twelve take him, Thancred can’t figure out _why_. It’s just out of his grasp, like he’s staring at objects covered by some heavy tarp. He knows there’s something there, he can see just the barest hints of shapes, but he can’t get to them.

“Her name is– Guinevere. Ashe. Isn’t it?” Gawynn asks haltingly.

“It is indeed,” Thancred says automatically, stuck awkwardly between his borrowed personality, his fumbling thoughts, and the beginning strains of suspicion. He adds, somewhat gracelessly, “Though she’s given to shortening it.”

Some sort of subtle look shifts across Gawynn’s face, not quite disbelief, not quite awe. After his customary habit of pausing he says, “You’ve… met her,” and it’s just shy of being a question.

Something is… not quite fitting together right, like two misaligned puzzle pieces. 

Add that to the sodding shapes under the godsdamned tarp, for all the good oit does him. He can’t know what doesn’t fit when he doesn’t know what the pieces are, and he can’t properly wrack his brain without jeopardizing his act and the chance to get more information.

Thancred inclines his head, suddenly leery. “I have.” 

Gawynn doesn’t outwardly react to the news, even after his typical pause for consideration. He doesn’t look particularly impressed, envious or skeptical. Fair enough, it’s not that impressive of a claim to make. Hundreds of people have met the Warrior of Light.

The abrupt shift in Thancred’s attitude hadn’t slipped his notice, surely? Going from open and conversational one moment to closed and succinct the next is hardly subtle.

Rather than express any suspicion, Gawynn chews his lips then looks towards the Seventh Heaven again. Whatever meager courage or will he’d gathered dissipates and he deflates slightly, abandoning whatever he was on the verge of saying and sinking back into his seat like he might well melt into it. 

Thancred coughs politely. “Gawynn?”

His jaw shifts indecisively for a few seconds. “How…” he begins, then stops.

“How,” Thancred coaxes, offering, “did I meet her?” 

A twinge of disagreement tightens Gawynn’s features for a moment, and then vanishes. Instead he redirects his green eyes to Thancred’s blades, his clothes, and then finally his face.

Why is Thancred growing more and more certain he knows who this is? And why is that sitting so oddly? 

“How,” Gawynn heaves a long, heavy sigh that stings of resignation, “how… is she?”

Thancred blinks once. Twice.

What an odd thing to ask. Particularly to someone who only claims to have met her.

“Well enough, I would imagine,” he hedges, shifting the fold of his arms. “Struck me as a good person when I met her. Humble, kind, compassionate and all that. Didn’t seem to be letting all that fame and renown go to her head. Being–” somewhat- “–honest, I got the impression she’s not all that fond of being in the spotlight.”

None of that is particularly privileged or secret information, so sharing it is inconspicuous enough. Plus it’s true, which makes it all the more believable. Within a week of meeting her Thancred had thought her a promising prospect for the Scions, both because of her abilities and the sort of person she was. Aside from that, Gwen’s discomfort with being the center of attention and the focus of praise is obvious enough, despite her efforts to conceal it. The thing is, nobody _notices_.

Well. _Almost_ nobody.

And Gawynn… almost smiles. Almost. His mouth doesn’t actually bend upwards to any significant degree, rather his heavy frown noticeably evens out. There’s a sense of relief about him as he twitches his head in a nod, as if that’s just what he was hoping to hear.

Thancred cocks his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you, sir?”

Gawynn blinks slowly, almost-smile fading as gradually as it had appeared. He peers at Thancred, nonplussed.

Engaging in a battle of attrition with someone as averse to speaking as Gawynn is likely folly, but Thancred does it anyway. He’s got all day.

Eventually, when all traces of Gawynn’s lifted move have dried up, his eyes have dulled, and all his wrinkles and creases have deepened, he says softly, “No one,” and his voice is hollow like a burned out forest.

Thancred shifts his weight, unsure of what to make of his reply or the change in his demeanor.

Before he can cobble something together Gawynn pushes himself to his feet, moving with all the speed and grace of a washed up veteran thirty summers his senior. He twitches his head in the barest of polite nods that’s aimed somewhere around Thancred’s knees, then takes his leave without a word.

Thancred lets him go, watching him wander in the general direction of Rowena’s inn at a slow, labored pace. 

After much debate he decides to keep the conversation, and Gawynn’s name, to himself until he figures out what to make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Wonder who that was. _*Cue mysterious music* >:3 _
> 
> Ty to the bestest beta reader @rhymingteelookatme for making sure this would hit how I wanted :B ~~and for fixing all my ye olde grammar because I’m bad at it~~


	28. Splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Splinter- noun_  
>  a small, thin, sharp piece of wood, glass, or similar material broken off from a larger piece.
> 
> Set post-5.3

It’s late, but Gwen is awake. Plenty tired, not restless, yet unable to sleep, even with the comfortable weight of Thancred’s arm around her waist, and the heat of his body against her back. Ever since they’d returned to the Source cuddling together has felt different in a way she can’t quite put her finger on. It likely has something to do with him being whole again, body and soul reunited. She knows that’s not what’s keeping her awake, though it’s always a curious thing to notice.

When her chronometer lets out a single, muted chime, Gwen reluctantly admits defeat. There are better ways to pass a sleepless night than lying in bed, particularly when she doesn’t want to disturb her partner. Even with the aid of tonics and healing magic, recovering from months abed is a tiring, time-consuming process. Thancred and the others need as much rest as they can get.

She shifts away from him, dragging herself from beneath his arm ilm by careful ilm. She’s almost free before his breath catches and the limp hand sliding over her waist twitches to life. 

He sleepily grasps at her, voice groggy, “Gwen?”

She pushes herself upright and turns to murmur gentle things against his temple, carding her fingers soothingly through his hair. He dozes beneath the calming sound and gentle touch, settling back into bed and only grumbling a little when she shimmies out from under his hand. 

Gwen does her best to be silent as she trades her nightclothes for pants and a baggy shirt, shooting frequent glances towards the bed. She flinches when she fumbles her pen and sends it clattering to the floor and snatches it up again, freezing and listening. Thankfully Thancred doesn’t stir, the sedate rhythm of his breath not changing. His face remains half-buried as she grabs her journal and tugs on her shoes, and she witholds a sigh of relief.

She puts effort into not making a peep as she creeps to her door, and then squeezes through and closes it softly behind her. The hall is dimly lit quiet, and she hesitates for a moment to listen for the sound of him rising to follow. It doesn’t come. She finally allows herself a sigh of relief and then starts down the hall.

It’s a pleasant and quiet night, not too hot but plenty humid. The sky is clear and the moon is a thin sliver hanging above the lake, constellations twinkling in the darkness overhead. Gwen wanders the empty streets briefly before clambering up to a dark rooftop, an additional handful of stars fading into existence as she climbs above the streetlights and some of the Toll’s light pollution. 

She perches at the apex of the roof, looking out over shadowy Mor Dhona and the inky darkness of Silvertear Lake. From here, in the faint light of the ambient gloom and the distant glow of corrupted crystals, her mind can almost twist the darkened ruins of the Keeper of the Lake into one of Amaurot’s towering structures, more hazily forming around it until the city itself is there, frozen in time in the lake.

The feeling resonating in her mind echoes in her chest, something not unlike the sense of longing similar to, but different, than homesickness. It was the same sort of feeling that had seeped into her senses when she’d first walked through Amaurot, an echo of familiarity more akin to recalling a friend’s description of the place rather than a memory of her own.

Her journal is heavy in her lap as she tilts her head up, picking out the constellations in the sky and imagining figures and shapes around the arrays of stars. Eventually she looks down at the leather cover, staring at it for drawn out seconds before tipping it open. She smooths her hand over the pages, flattening them down and feeling the texture of the paper, the constellations overhead conjuring the memory of the curious little crystals she’d gathered on her last visit to the seafloor. 

She twirls her pen in her fingers, considering. Her thoughts aren’t quite solidified enough to be formed into words, or tacked down in writing. But the blank page is staring up at her, and her pen is poised expectantly in her fingers. 

There are more ways to record things than just with words.

She has been known to draw on occasion– though really it’s more like sketching. Usually it’s plants, crafting her own rendition of flowers and leaves for her notes place of a pressed or preserved sample, or whenever the mood strikes. Sometimes she sketches interesting buildings or weapons too, like the Hostelry in Kugane or Sidurgu’s greatsword. The lines are always wrinkled and the shapes come out crooked as often as not, but in they’re typically easy enough to identify in the end. She’s designed fantastical and ridiculous outfits with Tataru while she was in the midst of crafting new clothes for the Archons, which was always good for a laugh, too.

As for people, well… she tries every now and then, just for the heck of it. Just for fun. Her attempts usually wind up comparable to Alisaie’s attempt to sculpt a porxie.

The shape in her mind is, thankfully, a simple one: curved at the top, pointed at the bottom, narrowing down the sides. Nothing too difficult.

Her first attempt to copy it down onto the page comes out decent enough, if slightly lopsided. She pauses, pen hovering while a flicker of thought blooms into an idea. Then she slowly fills in the constellation the crimson crystal had carried, the first one she’d discovered after Elidibus had vanished and Y’shtola had left to collect her belongings. Beneath it, she writes out the soft whisper that had rung in her ears when she’d held it.

It almost scratches the itch in her thoughts. And it certainly keeps her hand busy.

 _“Heh heh… I see you are collecting stars.”_ She can clearly recall Hythlodaeus’ voice echoing in the quiet emptiness of Amaurot.

Gwen sketches the shape again and fills in the constellation from the yellow crystal next, penning its recorded voice beneath it. Then the green crystal. Then the rest.

 _“I mentioned before that there was a member of the Convocation who opposed Zodiark’s summoning and defected. One whose office was left vacant…”_ Hythlodaeus had said. _“Defectors having been deemed unworthy of commemoration, no crystal exists for the individual in question.”_

Another member of the convocation didn’t have one, either. The trail Hythlodaeus had scattered in the streets had been composed of only twelve crystals. The missing Fourteenth’s made thirteen, but that still left one unaccounted for. Likely Elidibus’.

She draws a crystal for him anyway. At a loss as to what constellation it should hold, she leaves it blank. Beneath it, she writes the last words he’d murmured into the little stones atop the Crystal Tower.

_“…Or shouldn’t exist, at any rate─ and wouldn’t, had a friend not created one in secret.“_

Oh. She realizes too late she hadn’t put enough thought into sizing or spacing out the drawings, and the pages before her are full. The thirteen stones don’t fill every ilm of paper, but they take up enough space that there isn’t room to fit one more, even if she made it half the size. She’ll have to draw the Fourteenth’s crystal on a different page, all on its own.

_"A crystal bearing the forgotten name of her office, along with a magick of her own conceiving─ a singular incantation embodying her spirit.”_

She frowns slightly, tilting her head. It feels odd to break them up. Maybe she should start over on new pages, being careful with the sizing and layout this time.

Then again, the more she thinks about it…

_“Among all the offices, the Fourteenth was most unusual. For while the rest sat in Amaurot, its holder was charged with gaining an intimate knowledge of the wider world._

…the more she finds it rather fitting that the Fourteenth’s crystal be apart from the others.

She turns the page and draws the crystal’s shape one more time. This one didn’t have a constellation, instead adorned with the image of a ring with two small beads around a central circle. 

_“In the course of her duty, she traveled the length and breadth of every land, and befriended countless folk.”_

She senses the vaguest suggestion of a tease, a jest in good humor, about the fact that Azem’s crystal is _orange_ , of all colors.

Once the drawing is complete, she takes a moment to look it over and check her work. After a few dragging seconds she realizes how intently she’s staring at and studying the curious little shape, half-searching for something in the lines and curves. What, though, she isn’t sure. 

Gwen tap-tap-taps her pen on the other page until one section is fairly freckled, then tips her journal shut. 

It’s quiet tonight. Noticeably so.

She draws up her knees, her journal pressing against her stomach and thighs as she wraps her arms around her legs and hugs them close. 

So _much_ has happened. The more she tries to think about it all, the more she feels like she’s barely wrapped her head around even a small part of it. No wonder she can’t sleep. It’s amazing she doesn’t have a headache from everything that’s clattering around in there. 

She uncurls one arm and studies her hand, splaying and curling her fingers. There’s nothing to see, really. It’s just her hand, calluses, scars and all. Her _whole, complete_ hand.

She heaves a sigh, wondering how much she should or shouldn’t try to keep digging into all the revelations and truths of the First, specifically the Unsundered and the Convocation. How much she should ponder her connection to the Fourteenth, and how much it ought to matter– or if it should at all. 

Perhaps not. She should remember everything she’s learned, but that doesn’t mean she has to dwell on it. She can remember who they were, that they were people who once lived their own lives, just as she and her friends do now. She can remember their deeds, and the world that they loved and lost.

Beyond that? She doesn’t really need to know. And the same goes for the Fourteenth.

She is who she is. It was true before she went to the First, and it still is now, after she’s returned. She’s still herself, no matter who she might be a splinter or shard of. She’s Guinevere Ashe and no on else.

…Mostly.

 _“You walk with another at your side, yes?”_ Hythlodaeus had mused when they’d first met, giving both her and Ardbert pause. No one else had known he was there. _“Nay, I see no definite form… just the faintest suggestion of a second soul. I doubt it visible to anyone but me. Otherwise, I assume only you can see and hear this ethereal companion? Your connection is hardly a coincidence. In our time, the two of you were one─ the color of your souls tells the tale. A hue that distinctive cannot be mistaken, no matter how thin the soul is spread.”_

Sometimes, when she really thinks about it, she can sense Ardbert somewhat. He’d spoken to her at the peak of the Crystal Tower, before she’d faced Elidibus, but that was the clearest she’d heard his voice since he’d joined her to battle Emet-Selch.

Now when he speaks his voice is dim, a thought slipping by that isn’t quite hers. It’s similar, but different, to how Fray whispers to her. There’s a faint presence that leans on her senses sometimes, akin to the feeling of being in a room and knowing by pure instinct that someone else is there, too, even though she can’t find them.

Though he isn’t ‘there’ anymore, it’s heartening to be reminded Ardbert is still with her. 

She feels the slightest pressure on her shoulder, something hair-thin and light as air, a bare suggestion of sensation so faint that it just barely brushes her senses. It almost, maybe, feels like the playful nudge of a friendly fist.

There’s a small, sharp _clack!_ just beside her. 

Gwen jumps and yelps, flailing ungracefully to keep from tumbling from her perch. 

She whirls around and watches a small rock skitter and skip down the incline of the roof before toppling off the eave. Thancred is standing in the street below, idly tossing and catching another rock in one hand. A backup, in case first hadn’t caught her attention. Rather than trying to climb up and join her, he waves for her to come back down to the street.

She’s hardly surprised he’s awake, given how he can be such a light sleeper when the mood strikes him. He was probably faking it while she’d gotten dressed. Neither of them are wont to rest while the other can’t, but time and experience, have taught them to give each other the chance to have a bit of time and space to themselves before coming to look for them. 

Gwen obligingly climbs down from the roof. As she nears the ground she calls, “Didn’t feel like climbing?”

“Not sure I have it in me yet,” he replies, tossing the rock away. “And Krile would have my head for trying.” He gives her an appraising look as she drops the last few fulms and lands lightly on her feet. “Odd hour to go for a walk.”

She shrugs, not disagreeing.

“Everything alright?”

She nods.

He frowns, one brow arching. He holds the skeptical expression for a beat to make sure he gets his point across, then lets it drop and slips his hand into hers. “If you say so.”

Gwen leans against him as they start heading back towards the Stones, savoring his loose but steady grip and the pressure of his arm against hers.

“Surprised you’re not in the stables,” he comments. “You usually cuddle up with your bird when you brood.”

“I could see the stars better up there.” She narrows her eyes at him, “And I wasn’t brooding.”

Whatever smart reply he has is interrupted by a yawn that he poorly attempts to cover much too late. 

She gives him a sly grin. “Krile won’t be happy if she hears you’re up at this hour.”

“Which is precisely why she’s not going to hear about it,” he replies matter-of-factly, shooting her a look.

They settle in bed and cuddle together again, the lantern on the side table lowered to a dim, soft glow that’s just bright enough to read by. Gwen reclines against her pillows with a book in her hands and Thancred settles comfortably between her legs, his arms around her waist and his head pillowed on her chest, turned away from the offending light. 

She reads and strokes his hair, and he’s sound asleep in moments.

Eventually the hour, the dull words, and the slow rhythm of his breath lull her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still considering how knowledge of Amaurot and the Fourteenth affects Gwen and what she makes of it all. Clearly lmao. So have some pondering.
> 
> There was SO MUCH going on in ShB and so many revelations and my head is still kind of ALDKAFJSDLKFJAL about it lol I didn’t realize there were only 13 crystals until writing this. I’m just assuming Elidibus is the one who didn’t get one? It’s not like the crystals were all-that-decisively labeled, and we don’t know all of the Unsundered’s names.
> 
> Hythlodaeus is actually one of my fav characters from this expac. Anyone else?
> 
> hooly CRAP, FFXIVWrite2020 is done! :O


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